The Same Moon, a Different Struggle
by tdwaed
Summary: Werelock/Magical Realism • Sherlock was afraid of the magic. He would never have admitted it (too proud) and he would never have acknowledged it (too arrogant) but he was. He had fought tooth and nail against what he was, for reasons from a past littered with hardship. He would fight it now, even as it consumed him from the inside out - John would help. Eventual J/S. Chapters 11/?
1. Into the Woods

**A/N: **** This is just the chapter introducing you, the reader, to the situation and things. It gets better, I promise. **

**This is my FIRST EVER multi-chapter fic. I haven't had enough experience to perfect my writing or anything - so bear with me on this one?**

** Sherly and Jawn are going to become more than friends as the story progresses...t****hey might end up screwing each other. We'll see.**

* * *

**The Same Moon, a Different Struggle**

**Part One**

Into the Woods

The door slammed shut at his heels, and John Watson stomped away from the old house, not turning his head to look back. His worn-out boots splashed the dirty water covering the ground and created ripples in the image of the glorious full moon that the puddles had been reflecting. "Dammit," he whispered to the night's chilly breeze, "dammit, damn Anderson, damn Sherlock." John clenched his fists, anger from moments ago still running through his system; creating a fire in his eyes and setting his pulse free.

Cool evening air swept across his sweater-and-jeans-combo, drying the sweat that had gathered at the nape of the doctor's neck. The trees lining the deserted road, leading off of the property, which was in outer London, cast shadows on the muddy road. Skeletal branches swayed tantalizingly in the dark, and John shivered. He pulled his wool sweater more tightly around himself.

It was New Year's Eve. The first since Sherlock had... died. It was almost the start of a new year of mourning, and such a year could not have had a more fitting start.

"Come on, John," Lestrade had pleaded, "it might be time to... Let go. Of the past, you know." Lestrade was twisting his wedding band around his finger, like he always did when he was upset; and looking up at John apologetically but sternly.

"It's a whole new year, yeah? Time to reconnect with society, I would say..." Lestrade trailed off, and John didn't speak. He was concentrating on following Lestrade's ring around his finger as it turned. It was constant, he had mused, unlike people. Unlike certain people who do stupid things and are arrogant and... John stopped. _Were_ arrogant. Maybe Lestrade was right. Maybe it was time to let go.

"Alright. Okay, you've got me. I'll come to the stupid party... On one condition." John had looked Lestrade squarely in the eyes, then. "You keep Donovan and that son of a _bitch _Anderson away from me. Tell them to stay the hell away, you hear?"

John still hadn't forgiven Sally Donovan or Anderson for going after Sherlock the day before he jumped off St. Bart's. He hadn't really forgiven anybody, save Greg Lestrade. Lestrade was one person, and one, he knew, who cared, but Anderson and Sally... they had ruthlessly gone after his best friend. Sherlock had died, partly because of these jerks at Scotland Yard. And even before the whole Moriarty business had started, they had been at it. They had called him a freak, tried to get him thrown out… not that Sherlock _wasn't_ a freak, because he very obviously was, and not that he had been actually _allowed_ to investigate crime scenes in the way he did. But Donovan and Anderson could burn in hell for their roles in what was still tearing John apart, piece by piece.

Lestrade had looked up at John, a smile breaking through his weary face. He really did work too hard, that one. His eyes crinkled at the corners even though his smile was sad.

"Yeah, that… could be arranged. I don't think they'll want to approach you anyway, mate. The party will be great, though, you'll see! And I'll see you there!" Lestrade smiled at John reassuringly, and then turned around to head through the doorway of 221b, which seemed so empty now.

"Take care until then, Doctor Watson," he had called over his shoulder.

The party had been a disaster.

It had started out all right, and John had found himself surrounded by friends and acquaintances from Scotland Yard. Lestrade had taken to inviting a few of his and John's friends from the pub as well, and the former was warmed by all the familiar faces he saw. He almost forgot about Sherlock for a second or two. The beer was great, and there were those little hors d'oeuvre platters that everybody loved scattered around the apartment, which was lively and lit up.

"Ahh, then I says to 'im, 'How's 'bout that drink now? Since you're back on it again!' and he looks at me, and we just start laughing at the whole damn business!"

An explosion of laughter accompanies this rather loud comment, and John looks up to see a big, burly man of about 35 wiping his watering blue eyes on the back of his hand. He's wearing a blue and green button down shirt, with grass-stained jeans and a smile.

The man perks up even more, if possible, at the sight of John.

"Jonny! Long time no see, eh? You still remember me, though, right? Bill, from rugby?"

John suddenly found himself engulfed in the man's warm bear hug, his face smashing into sandy-brown curls. He lifts his drink up so it doesn't shatter on the ground.

Bill pulls away, still holding onto John's shoulders; sizing him up.

"Lookin' good, I see. Haven't seen you since that reunion at uni, remember that? God, made me feel so old, being there." Bill smiles, eyes crinkling and his face pulling into a large grin.

John can't help but smile back at him, if a bit tentatively. He had always liked Bill, but he could be so unpredictable, and could possibly be a child's soul lost in an adult's body. They had been on the same rugby team at university, which had made them good friends there.

"The wife's pregnant, did you know? We're expecting in March. I'm just so happy, Jonny! Life's great, though I do miss rugby." Bill smiled crookedly, and John offered his congratulations on the baby. They soon were engulfed in a conversation about 'the good old days', which led to Bill's new job at Scotland Yard. (John had wondered why Bill was here; that must be it.)

"It's great, great… But what 'bout you, Jonny? How are _you_ doing?"

"Oh, you know same old things. Still trying to get a girlfriend, if you can believe. But I'm here in London, it looks like for good." John said this all very half-heartedly, taking a sip of his beer and looking at the fireplace for a second too long.

"I… I saw you in the news, a while back. And I checked out your blog, too. Pretty good stuff, Jonny! I hope you think me too much of a stalker." Bill winked, but watched John closely.

"Huh? Oh… oh, that. Right. Thanks…" John trailed off, a little uncomfortable. These days, he didn't like to talk about his blog, (which he had never updated after Sherlock's death, save a post of _"__**.**_ _**He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him.**__"_) He abandoned his blog, after that. There was no need for it. Nothing ever happened to him anymore.

"Listen… John," Bill began, catching John by surprise. He always called John 'Jonny', partly because he knew it annoyed the hell out of him and partly because it sounded more playful, and that was what Bill was all about. It had always been 'Jonny', or 'Jonny boy' since uni.

"I'm sorry," Bill continued, "I really, truly am. It's not fair, is it? I know Sherlock was a great man, and-"

"No. No, you really don't." John mumbled, interrupting Bill. "Nobody knows. Nobody knows how insufferable he was, nobody knows about his quirky habits, which, incidentally, we all hated. And nobody even thinks he's worth half a thought anymore because of what Moriarty-_Richard Brook_, as he's now known to the whole public- did."

Bill was silent for a moment, and then decided it might be best to let his friend be. He had dealt with people like this before, and found that really all they needed was a quiet moment alone.

"I really am sorry, mate." And with that, Bill crept out of the room, old, red trainers squeaking with each step he took.

John looked at the fire in the hearth for a second, then picked up his drink and went to find a window to stare out of sullenly. He didn't know why this helped; but it did. Especially if it was raining outside.

John had been in the front room, sipping his beer silently, when he saw Molly from the corner of his eyes. She looked well, if a bit thin. Molly was still pretty shaken up from the whole deal, John could tell. She pursed her red lips over her teeth and wore that false smile that she put on when things were tough. She walked over and stood next to John, by Lestrade's darkened window, with a crystal wineglass in her hand.

Molly had on a cocktail dress that was the color of deep cranberry, and her hair was up in an elegant wave that framed her dainty face. She wore lipstick and mascara, but other than that, her face was clean and distinguished. Molly held her chin up and put her petite shoulders back, standing as straight as you would expect the queen to.

Since Sherlock had died, she had been more confident. More free, without thoughts of the detective holding her back from doing all the things she liked. Pining for Sherlock Holmes was not desirable for anyone. If he didn't think you were an idiot (and most people were, in his eyes) he either did not acknowledge you or was bored by your existence. You were just another gear in the machine, maybe helping him in some way, but never important enough to be recognized as a separate, working piece. John was probably the only person Sherlock paid attention to fully, and the only person who could stand Sherlock for as much time as Sherlock could stand him.

Molly Hooper had always paid attention to someone who could never love her back, and it had made her seem weak and pitiful. Now, she was her own person. She wasn't some poor girl infatuated with Sherlock Holmes. In fact, Molly was probably better off, with him gone.

"Molly...erm…. How, ah, are you? How's the morgue?" John made a bad attempt at conversation and wanted to hit himself in the face the moment he started talking. Luckily, Molly seemed not to mind.

"Great," she smiled, looking at a point just away from where John was staring, "Just as wonderful as usual… if, a bit… quiet." She smirked, pulling her eyes up to John's.

"How are _you_?"

"Fine….Fine..." John mumbled, trying to ignore Molly's dissecting gaze. She must have picked that up from Sherlock. Maybe he had given her lessons on how to make someone feel very, very uncomfortable before he left, so he had someone to carry out the duty while he was gone. She had to have been trained by a master. He silently took a sip of his beer, wishing, praying, that Molly would let him be.

"John..." Molly said softly. She stared at John until he reluctantly lifted his eyes up to match hers. Pleading spheres of warm, chocolate brown stared wistfully back at him.

"I know it doesn't feel good now, but it gets better…. Just you wait. And don't feel afraid to go out and do something again… Don't let this rule your life, John. You may have everyone else fooled, but," Molly softened her gaze, "I know it still hurts. He was your best friend."

Molly said all of this slowly, but almost breathlessly, like she was trying to get it all out before she burst, or lost her nerve.

John opened his mouth, possibly to say thank you, possibly to tell Molly to piss off and mind her own business; but he never got the chance to say _anything_ because Anderson strode into the room at that exact moment, flanked by Donovan and one of his mates from the forensics unit. John whirled around, completely forgetting Molly. He was horrified at what he heard from the three who had just entered the room.

"And I said, what did you expect the freak to do? What do all depressing, theatrical psychopaths do in the end? Hurl themselves off buildings, of course," Anderson was saying.

Donovan interrupted. "Wanted a dramatic exit, I'd bet!"

John felt a sinking feeling in his stomach that was almost immediately accompanied with a burning of hatred so intense that the doctor could practically feel the steam pouring out from his ears. He sharply pulled his head up and locked eyes with the unnamed forensics employee, the only one in the room who seemed to have noticed his presence thus far. The man shrugged, panicked, and looked at John with wide, fearful eyes. He muttered something about getting more whiskey and hurried out of the room, just as John uttered a deep sound from the back of his throat.

Anderson's head had turned swiftly enough to catch a good glimpse of John before he was promptly punched in the face.

"Argh! God! You hit hard, even for a military man," he remarked, rubbing his face. Scarlet trickles of blood were already leaking from the wound John had made on Anderson's cheek, directly below his left eye.

"Okay, okay, I probably deserved that one but I'm _sorry _if you can't bear to hear the truth. That man, that psychopath-" Anderson stumbled backwards, this time clutching his stomach and groaning.

"Do… not… talk... About… Sherlock... Like…. That!"

John growled at Anderson, the words coming out with breaths in-between each one. He spoke with a dangerously low voice, his eyes wild and his fists clenched at the sides of his sweater-clad torso.

"Well, your boyfriend kind of deserves it, after what he did. He's a _criminal _and he framed an innocent man. He's a _fraud_ who used you. He used the whole of Scotland Yard for his own entertainment-"

"First off, he is _not_ my bloody boyfriend! Second, it was the other way around. _Sherlock_ was the one being fucking _framed_, and look where it got him. He's dead! No thanks to you, Anderson. I can see why he never liked you!"

John stared at Anderson, fire burning in his eyes and his limbs practically aching for another swing at him. God, he hated this man. This man, who had already ruined everything, but was still trying to insult the greatest detective of all time; who was _dead_.

John might never know what exactly had happened leading up to the fiasco at St. Bart's, but he would defend Sherlock until he met his own grave. Sherlock was a great man, the best of the best, as far as John Watson was concerned. He was brilliant, and misunderstood… and John knew deep down that all Sherlock needed was a friend, someone to care about him. Someone to go to his crime scenes, and appreciate his deductions, and hide his cocaine. He hadn't known it at the start, but Sherlock was caring, whatever he did to convince everyone he didn't give a damn. It was better that way, he said once. Becoming attached to his clients, helping them feel better about whatever terrible thing had happened to them, did nothing for him or his work. "Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side." But John knew Sherlock just wanted to be loved. He had been broken so many times, probably without realizing it, and it had hardened him.

John had pieced the great detective's persona together, piece by piece, little quirk and clue, action and expression all growing into one man while they were flat mates at 221b Baker Street. He knew Sherlock would never do anything to hurt him, or Mrs. Hudson, or even Mycroft if he could help it. (If Mr. British Government could ever love anything other than cake and umbrellas.) Deep inside, Sherlock was a great man. He had cared enough to leave a "note", or more accurately, a phone call.

John didn't want to waste his time on pricks like Anderson, people who didn't understand who, really, Sherlock Holmes was; People who just didn't _get_ the man behind the funny little hat. The doctor gave Sally Donovan his best death-stare, and turned on his heel; slamming the door behind him.

He didn't know why he had snapped like that. He just… had. Anderson had been a bigger pain in the arse than usual, Sally Donovan had been horrible, and Lestrade had _promised_ him he wouldn't have to face those monsters. John had seen the way that they were treating Sherlock's memory, and broke from the inside. In fact, he hadn't just broke, or shattered. John was fairly sure that he had melted, melted from rage and hate and the sadness, because the sadness was always there, no matter what; caged up inside of him.

John keeps trudging through the dirt and the mud, not caring where his feel take him. He can't go home, to the empty apartment; he's too riled up, and he can't go back to the party. He supposes he'll just walk for a while.

After some time, John's travels take him to a narrow pathway leading into a forest. It's dark and damp and smells like rotting wood but it's _wonderful_; he can't explain it but somehow this mysterious garden of dead trees and vegetation catches his eye. There are dark shapes everywhere and everything is damp with dew. The ground squishes under John's feet and the air smells of pine and animal. He could just disappear in there; get away from Anderson and the people who give him disapproving looks in the streets or while he's at Tesco, for his association with Sherlock Holmes, the scammer. The con-man.

John Watson supposes that tonight is a night that is good as any for trudging through a dark forest, alone and still behaving rather irrationally.

He starts walking through the trees and the glow of the full moon lights up the nape of his neck and his hunched figure as he leaves London behind, for now.

* * *

**A/N: Yay! So that's the first chapter. Believe me, there's many more where that came from! Updates every Sunday, and some weeks I may give you an extra chapter :3**

**I know everybody says this, but… review?**

**DISCLAIMER: The characters aren't mine. If they were, I'd be rich, and putting my ideas in the show istead of in fanfiction. ****The ideas for this story, however, ARE my own.**


	2. New Year

**A/N: okay, I have to get something off my chest. In the last chapter, where I said John did a post on his blog about Sherlock, that was not the actual post he made. I found the actual words (on John's blog) and have edited accordingly. Gah!**

**But, anyways, I present to you chapter two!**

* * *

New Year

John walked for a long while, watching the slow steps of his trainers as they treaded along an unexplored path, tracking an invisible prey. He threaded his way through the trees, deeper and deeper until the shadows that cloaked him became darker and more pronounced in the heavy shade provided by a canopy of limbs covered in rough tree bark. The pale moonlight that came from the sky above lit up his journey, but in a melodramatic way that was both frightening and enchantingly beckoning at the same time. The forest had called out to John, like mysterious and dangerous things often do, and who was he to say no? The air was cool and branches swayed like feathers, tickling him just in the right spots.

Dark thorns threatened to tear his sweater every once in a while, but John avoided them almost subconsciously, thoughts elsewhere. He was here, after all, for thinking, and that was what he intended to do.

Among dust-bunnies and forgotten ideas, in the least acknowledged corners of John's mind, was anger. Anger at everyone, everything, really. John was angry at Sherlock for leaving him- hell, he was furious. He was furious at the world, which had cheated him out of something really, truly great. And the world had also been cheated, actually.

John needs to stop thinking these things, though. Nothing will ever come of it, good or bad. It's useless, all of it. Not that that ever stopped anyone from doing anything, of course; _uselessness._

There was, however, a loose end that refused to tie itself up. Perhaps, if the whole mystery was solved, John could move on. He could stop worrying about this so long after the actual events; but he simply can't.

It's because when Sherlock jumped off the roof of St. Bart's, to his death, he was gone. He had killed himself by jumping; all the wounds he received were effects of that jump. But there was a pool of blood, scarlet and new, and a dropped gun discovered on that roof. Not near the edge, but right in the middle. Just a couple meters from where Sherlock had jumped laid the remnants of a person, who had very likely taken their own life. A person who wasn't, could not have been, Sherlock Holmes. Because he had _jumped. _Or fell, as John liked to sometimes think of it as.

So whose DNA lived in those blood cells then? John had asked himself this so many times while reporters on the telly yammered on about it, their polished lips moving fast and with great enthusiasm. For them, no doubt, it was all a great story.

After days, weeks even, of nail-biting and anxiety attacks and grieving and watering eyes, it was announced on John's television that the blood had belonged to a certain Mr. Richard Brook.

The media had gone crazy, of course. Conspiracy theories blossomed and bloomed like spring flowers waiting to be picked; and picked they were. The ideas were used and watered and watched as they turned into great flowers that seemed to loom over John in a menacing way all the time. They did just that, with the help of press and magazines and, of course, the blogosphere.

And all the while, John was left in his flat to try and make sense of it all; and the thing was, none of it made any-fucking-sense-what-so-ever. Sitting in his usual chair, by a crackling fire and in a noiseless flat, John had pondered over this new information for such a long time that Mrs. Hudson had come up to check on him on at least five different occasions, and each time, he hadn't moved from the chair. The tea sitting on his left side went cold, and the fire burned out, but the mess was still there. It made John's eyes go hard and his mind whirl, gears ticking and going around frantically, but to no avail.

Moriarty was still alive, somewhere; there wasn't _really_ enough blood left on the roof for him to have died. It had to be a set-up. Just like Moriarty had to have done something to Sherlock to get him to jump. Possibly blackmail, or maybe some other form of persuasion. Strong persuasion. What this meant for himself, John did not know. He just knew that this was not over; not as long as one cunning bastard out of two roamed the Earth.

And speaking of earth, John looks at the mossy forest floor, where his feet have stopped moving. He sees his muddy trainers, pressed into the soft ground that most forests will have. He's come a ways, and it's dark and he's tired. Maybe it's time to go home now; there really isn't anything he can do but move on, right? And leave all of these _thoughts_ here? Where nobody can find them?

It might be time for John to get into bed with a cup of tea, stare out his window at the London cityscape, and think about the New Year. Because it is a _new year._

Every second, every moment, changes the world. You could touch a ball, which rolls against a kite which is pushed and pulled with the wind to a toy-store, where it becomes tangled on a teddy bear. Maybe the teddy bear will be light enough to fly up with the kite, and the wind will die down just above the crumpled, dirty figure of an abandoned child.

So every moment, something like this happens, and it becomes a new year. And it's not so hard to understand. A child will lift up his gritty eyes and see a present in front of him, lying on his ragged clothes. And he'll grin, and hug the bear tight, like his life depends on it. All because of a ball, that rolled down a hill.

And it'll be a _new year._

Because things have _changed._

By that logic, it's always a new year. But when you've been living in the old one, you tend to think differently. The New Year always serves as a landmark, a time–piece. It is no use when nothing has changed in between the two years in question. It brings hope, however, which is what John has been holding on to for so long now. What everyone needs, and what keeps little boys who are sad, cold and afraid alive for long enough. It ensures that most of them do not die broken, and that some of them don't die.

Through the skeletal branches above him, John can see the flutter of a couple bats flying overhead, hunting, no doubt. They look graceful, and free, so _free_; and it's what everyone wants, to spread their wings and fly, with no other responsibilities than to just live, and thrive. They call out to each other in the night air, faint sounds that only they can understand.

The lone screech of an owl interrupts John from watching the creatures soar overhead. It is paired with a most curious, and frightening noise indeed.

It is a long, guttural, loud howl that seems to alert everything in the entire forest of its presence. It echoes from tree to tree, reverberates on rough bark and pounds into the chilly, still air like a metal fist. It sounds pained, like the creature who uttered it is being ripped apart, molecule by molecule, and then put back together again. It stops time and starts it again at the same, breathless moment; because everything is so much more real and awake now.

And it's a new year.

John is suddenly, almost painfully aware of the fact that he's in the middle of a forest, very alone, and that there is now some kind of fearful beast in here with him.

He looks back upwards at the faint blackness that surrounds everything; the bats aren't there. They were probably spooked, like him. Not free from _everything,_ then.

He tears his eyes away from the sky and looks around him, in all directions. But all John sees are trees-and their long, thin shadows, criss-crossing on the cool ground, making the darkness around him more noticeable. The skeletal branches that block out moonlight make the scene so much more… serious.

It was like some cheesy Halloween movie, and John Watson chuckles.

Except it wasn't. John expects something to come out of the bushes at any second, and nowhere is safe. The darkness has glowing eyes. The night is silent but John imagines the panting of a huge animal everywhere, and hot breath on his neck. It's like the Hounds of Baskerville all over again, and John knows it's not real, but it's everywhere.

It really is funny, what being in a forest late at night can do to you. If you were in John's place, you would no doubt have the same reaction to everything he sees. But if you were in your flat, with a nice, warm cup of tea and a roaring fire, the howl would mean nothing. "Just another wolf, I guess… or maybe it's someone's dog… guess it's time to get to bed…" But when you have nowhere to go, and the sound seems so much closer without the buzz of London traffic, everything is real. And John had a very good reason to be worried for his health.

John breathes deeply in through his mouth, unsure of what to do. He pinches the bridge of his nose and stares up at the bright, full moon that is lighting everything up. Why does he do this to himself? Go off on an adventure, get himself into trouble-what can he possibly gain? John closes his eyes.

He's always been like this, though. When he was young, just nine or ten years old, he took a boat he found near the shore out to the middle of the rather large lake that was located about half a mile from his house. He nearly drowned. Tens of dangerous adventures followed that episode, and it all finally ended after he got back from Afghanistan, with a bad leg and a bullet taken to the shoulder. Except it hadn't. Because then he had met Sherlock Holmes.

Some people have what they call a "sweet tooth". Others have hobbies, and most people have something they yearn for. John, deep down, will always look for danger and adventure, something to get his heart breathing faster and his energy to spike. He will always want a taste of it, and he will never be sated, either.

And it always will put him in danger, and will probably lead to his death.

So, while John thinks about the strange noise and what to do, he is actually very, very grateful for it. Nothing ever happens to him.

"Okay, okay… yes. Okay. Just,.. let's get out of here alright. Yes." John mumbles to himself, and opens his eyes, looking around him. He sees the same landscape that was there the last time he checked.

The doctor turns around, looking at where he thought he had come from. There was no way to tell, of course, but it looked like the right way. The trees are sparser there, in any case.

John refused to call anyone for help. He could easily ring Sarah, or Greg, and get out of the woods in an hour. He hasn't gone in deep, and it should be pretty easy to just have someone look at a map and tell him where to go.

But he won't do that, of course. He has pride, and expectations to live up to. No man who is "fine" walks into the forest, late at night because he's mad and distracted and just feels like it. And people will worry about him, ask him if he's alright, and John can't stand that. No. He will not ask for help like a twelve year-old because he is lost in an unfamiliar place.

So John turns on his heel and starts walking in the opposite direction, towards the trees that are not as sparse as the ones that were in front of him only moments ago.

After a while, John can tell it's not the right way. He comes to barren clearing which he didn't pass on his way here. It's completely different. John walks past a large boulder that sits on the edge of the clearing, and runs his fingers against it. The stone is cold and unwelcoming in the night.

Once again, he pinches the bridge of his nose and looks around at the all-consuming darkness.

Suddenly, there is another howl, closer this time. It has the same effect on everything that the first one did, deep and animal-like. It sounds happy, but has a dark undertone that warns of something. A moment later, John learns what.

There is the startled, painfully high screech of a large bird, and much flapping of feathers. But soon all of that is gone and replaced by the sounds of ripping flesh and satisfied grunts.

The beast is obviously pleased.

John stands stock-still, his fear written all over his face. His left hand trembles, something that usually doesn't happen. John clenches his sweaty fists until his knuckles turn white, and takes more deep breaths.

"It's okay, it's all fine." He just needs to get out of this clearing, which he has migrated to the middle of. It is much too exposed, and John is unarmed. Maybe if he could get to a tree, one he could climb…

But John stops planning his escape. Stops doing anything, really. Because the sounds of flesh being devoured, and the grunts that accompanied it are gone.

John does the only thing he can do in the situation, which is run. He whips around and his feet start to move almost mechanically, adrenaline running through his veins. John doesn't look where he is going, only at his final destination in the inky blackness, the opposite side of the clearing. His heart pumps in his chest and the animal can probably hear it because it's so loud, in the still air.

But in his distractions, his need to get away, John stumbles on a hard rock cropping out of the undergrowth. His body lurches forwards, and he slams into a large mass of hard, cold stone.

"_Fuck._ Ouch. _Fuck,_ _that hurt_."

John swears under his breath for a long moment, forgetting the situation for the pain in his head. Rubbing his temple, he straightens up very suddenly, peering at the forest around him. He turns around and scans the trees.

John sees nothing.

His heart starts to slow, his breathing becoming normal again. Maybe he was alright.

John slumps up against the rather large stone, pressing his forehead against it. It had probably gone the other way, making for its hideout with its loot. That's what animals did, right? Store food away for later and all. The beast must have gone to do that, that's why he wasn't hearing it anymore.

John is just about to turn around, when something catches his eye.

There are two orbs of an uncertain color staring out at him from one of the clusters of trees that surround him.

"Shit," John murmurs. He starts to back away, keeping his eyes trained on the beast.

He hears a rustle.

It really is like The Hounds of Baskerville all over again.

The eyes look oddly familiar, but John doesn't have time for that now. He whirls around, intending to run, but glances behind him, at the predator who is now stalking him, looking for food. Which it has found.

As he stares at the beast; which is slowly moving towards him, eyes growing closer, John notices something on the boulder. It's a shadowed part, in the shape of a perfect rectangle.

As he moves farther away, John realizes it's a door.

His later thoughts would be _Mycroft,_ and _how_, and _why_, and an honest to all _what-the-hell_.

But it's not good to look a gift horse in the mouth, or not immediately anyway.

John sprints back to the rectangular outline on the large rock, and sure enough, it's a door.

He runs through, and finds a metal handle on the other side, and it's all like a gift from heaven itself. "Thank you, _thank you_." He grabs the handle, but his hand stills on it, looking outside.

John sees those hauntingly familiar eyes looking back at him; neither grey nor blue, they are huge and deep and look so very intelligent for an animal. The eyes are all he can see; everything else is cloaked in shadow. They stare up at him intently, searching, but not moving.

John waits a second longer before slamming the steel door shut, quickly, and sees a flash of silver and hears the rustle of vegetation before the mechanical _click_ that echoes through the room he is now in.

The doctor is breathing in huge gasps, like he cannot get enough air. He doubles over, looking at the ground, dark tile that has replaced the squishy soil of the forest floor.

His shoes are more or less ruined, completely covered in mud and papered with leaves and twigs. He had liked that pair, too.

John picks up his feet, that fill the damaged and ill-treated shoes, and walks forward a little bit in the almost pitch-blackness. There is a tiny, barred window at what must be the corner of the room, and it lets moonlight in. There are glimmers where light has shone on certain objects everywhere, and there has to be hundreds of things here, all packed into this one, tiny room. John scans the celling for a light, but finds none. _Where the hell was he?_

John takes a few tentative steps forward, wary of stepping on anything.

As it turns out, he is right to be wary. After a few steps, the doctor feels his feet sink down, and a resounding _click_ fills the empty room.

There is a stab of pain in John's neck, but soon he is asleep and it doesn't matter.

* * *

**A/N: Ooh, a cliffhanger! (I'm really sorry about that, by the way. Forgive me?)**

**As always, characters not mine. Story is. **

**Review?**


	3. Old Reminders

**A/N: Hey! Chapter Three here, don't give up if you're getting a bit bored. Things will heat up soon, I promise. I don't know much about what I'll be doing with this story yet, but you can count on some action and some epic fight near the end.**

* * *

Old Reminders

Light seeps through the cracks in the steel door and into the almost deserted room. It reaches its pale fingers in through a small window in the back, trying desperately to grab hold and plant itself there. It cannot, although that's okay. No one who ever occupies the room particularly wants the light.

Darkness is cool and welcoming and doesn't make you see things you don't want to see. You don't even have to see yourself, or anything that reflects what you think. In the dark, mirrors are just shapes upon the wall. They don't show you anything. It is so easy to hide in the shadows, and not think about anything; yourself, others, keeping up appearances. Everyone has something to hide, something that would do better if it were pushed into the dark. When you look into a mirror, it tells you that _this is you, secrets and all_. A rather nasty habit that human beings have is to connect thoughts and feelings with things they see. When you, and all your thoughts, are reflected back at you, you may see what you have to hide. Sometimes what you have to hide is even bigger than yourself, and it might consume you if you aren't careful. All you see in the mirror are secrets and false identities and it truly helps no one; least of all yourself. One thing the most skilled hider knows is that you must never let darkness become your home, or the only room you live in; lest it take you as its own.

This is why, we can suppose, there is light in the room. There is never enough to keep it there, but it blocks the darkness, in a way.

The room looks like a laboratory of sorts, the small and neglected window so high up on the wall that even a particularly tall man would have to stretch to reach the sill. The thing about the window, though, was the fact that it turned the laboratory into a mad scientist's lab – it was barred. Thick, iron strips of metal cover the glass, stopping anything from coming in or getting out. They are rusted and nailed in and look like they had been there for quite a while. It is the sort of thing you expect to find in an old cellar or prison, used to keep dangers from escaping into the society that people are so anxious we don't pollute.

There are telescopes and microscopes lying on tables, and there is an entire area that seems to be devoted to lunar charts and models of the solar system. Hand-written notes are posted on the wall above the lunar charts and models, all in various states of disarray. Scribbled paragraphs and diagrams spill off of stainless-steel desks, as if they were deserted only moments ago. A pen even sits atop a stack of papers, pointed leftward and gleaming ever so slightly in the faint light.

Vials and bottles cover the shelving, which seems to go on forever. Boards of a rich, crimson-brown make their way around the walls, and not a single inch of space lies empty. Putrid smells escape from the bottles' and jars' cloth tops, and it is very obvious why.

There is what looks like various body parts from various creatures in the bottles, some sitting dark cranberry in their murky jelly. Others look clean enough, but are still as disturbing as the fresher items. A casual observer could identify the heart of a small animal, a medium sized animal, and, most frighteningly, a heart that was the perfect size for a human to have owned once – long ago. Everything sits in the same, curious substance on the shelves, eerily still and graphic. The whole scene makes one think of a poem by Poe; and the small window with the thick bars does not help.

Of all the organs and different specimens that are made an example of, only one seems to perhaps be alive.

There is a rectangular tank, just big enough for someone to stick a couple of textbooks into, at the very end of the shelf that lines the entire room. It has been placed into the darkest corner, cloaked in shadows entirely by accident or to maybe hide something grotesque.

The tank itself is bare, dusty and old-looking; it is very standard and nothing special, just walls of glass sitting on a wood base that is scratched and obviously not well cared for. Dirty, gray water fills the simple holding unit. An electric heater is pinned to the side, but this seems to be the only comfort whatever dwells in the glass cage is offered.

Its eyes are the only things visible, as the form is concealed in the shadows. But you may notice the mangled limbs or slimy, grizzled skin that seems to be lit up here or there. You may also see the sharp angles and jutting-out bones that come from the shadow.

The truth is, however, that all you would notice in the scene would be giant orbs of copper, staring out at you and almost piercing your insides. The eyes of a dark creature that are gleaming with intelligence but seem to not be connected to anything. The eyes of something lurking, trying not to be seen.

If you looked closely, you might be able to make out the eyes moving swiftly around the curious laboratory before they roll back into their owners head, and the form disappears.

At that exact moment, the eyes of John Watson snap open.

The first thing he sees is the dirty, smudged tile ground. He doesn't wonder how he got there.

The first thing he feels is a sharp, stinging pain in his neck. It's the only thing on his mind.

John closes his eyes, and then pulls himself up into a sitting position in a swift movement, grunting and reaching his fingers into his sandy locks to find the source of the pain. Sure fingers grasp hold of a dart, and John pulls it from the tender skin of his neck, wincing. It was in deep. Tiny pin-pricks of pain emanate from the puncture, but John brushes tears out of his sleep-filled eyes to examine the object.

It looks like a standard sleep dart, except for the fact that there is a small tank attached to the needle. The tank is drained, but the inside is still wet with moisture, collected from the remnants of an unknown substance. The drops almost look… violet, in color. It's odd.

The gleaming silver needle connected to the dart is rather large, and the point still shines with a mixture of blood and the unknown liquid in the fluid tank.

So this is what was inside his neck… no wonder it hurts like hell.

John rubs the back of his neck, sighing.

How did this always happen to him? He had been at the New Year's party, and then Anderson had come up… and then he had seen that thing in the forest, and had been chased, - and oh, _Oh._ Some kind of security system had got him?

John grimaces, but straightens up. He lets out a soft moan as his spine re-aligns. God, sleeping on the floor could do a number on your back. He had done it for a long time in Afghanistan, but that was years ago – John had forgotten just how much he hated it, and just how old he was getting, apparently. What he wouldn't give to have slept on a feather mattress last night, with a beer and a good book. John had been reading a lot of books lately. His therapist might say that they helped him escape reality; that they had become a coping mechanism of sorts, but that was bullshit. John just really liked getting lost in a story and becoming the character he was reading about. If the book was in first-person point of view, it was even better. He was suddenly not John Hamish Watson, of 221b Baker Street, he was Captain Julius of the _Deserter, _and he was a hero - or even the villain. It was nice.

John supposed that he could go off and have his own adventures; that he could make something of his life yet, but that was somehow not an option. Even with all the opportunities, they would never be the same. Besides, he couldn't exactly go anywhere fast or in a hurry with his leg. Damn his leg. The limp had come back; not as strong, but it still prevented him from hopping around London as John had just gotten used to doing.

Although he hadn't limped once last night. It would seem as though Sherlock was proving points, even from beyond the grave.

Enough about his leg – there was something to figure out here.

John was in a pretty secret place, and whatever the circumstance, that could be considered trespassing. Or knowing too much about the government. Either one could get him shot in the head.

The doctor reached out and pulled himself up, grabbing the edge of the nearest table. The world started to spin.

"Fuck," John curses, looking around. It takes a full fifteen-second break composed of heavy breathing to be able to focus on anything in the room.

"What the _hell_ was in that dart?"

When, eventually, John can take a few tentative steps forward, he gets a good look at the place.

There is, in fact, a pressure pad about two meters from the door, which John must have stepped on after running into the room. He doesn't find any obvious system that the dart could have come from, though, which makes him nervous. Whoever had set up the security had known what they were doing. There is a light switch, but the light is out, and it doesn't do much good. The sun is, at least, coming up properly now so that should help anyway.

Before anything else, John hobbles to the door to examine it.

It is made of a rather heavy material, and this makes the door itself much harder to open. There is no lock except a bolt fastened high up; it seems that the least of the owner's worries is someone _human_ getting in. Maybe wild animals are common here.

There is a rifle leaning up against the wall near the door. It is polished, but scratched and is also loaded. John has seen enough guns in his day to tell. It's a survival skill.

When he has finally given the door an advanced assessment, John turns around toward the empty room.

There are test tubes and microscopes, and manic papers taped on the walls and _Christ, - it looks just how 221b used to look_, all experiments and various science-y equipment. If John had cared to examine any of the notes closer, he may have noticed the handwriting on them was strikingly familiar.

But when in a new place, having just gotten shot in the neck, you don't check the handwriting. You examine the more unusual pieces.

John scans the room, looking for who could possibly live here. It was most certainly a permanent home, all objects of practical use and composed a little bit of objects of comfort, even if there is not much room for sentiment with all the test tubes and such here.

But before John can examine anything further, something catches his eye.

It is gleaming on top of a stack of thin papers, acting as a paperweight. And John is confused.

He had always thought that Mrs. Hudson had given away the pale skull that seemed to live on the mantle at the flat him and Sherlock had shared. One day, a few weeks after the Reichenbach fiasco, it had disappeared. John hadn't missed the pale skull but it had served as a reminder of his friend, and he had mixed feelings about that fact. John had finally decided that Mrs. Hudson had gotten rid of it, couldn't stand to see it sitting there like someone had just finished talking to it, as had always been the case. So John hadn't asked what had become of it, just like he hadn't asked what had become of Sherlock's experiment stuff. He thinks he remembers Mrs. Hudson saying something about maybe she should donate it to a school or something like that…

But it was here, or something like it was at least. And, _shit_, this looks like Sherlock's (signature) skull.

_Why was it here?_

John is suddenly sick to his stomach, everything he hadn't eating bubbling and sloshing around. This isn't right.

He finally takes a deep breath, and tears his eyes away from the skull, cradling his face with one hand, fingers of the other fumbling in mid-air. There were too many memories associated with that image.

John stumbles to the door, and flings it open with unsteady fingers. The daylight washes over him; John had forgotten how dark it was inside that mysterious room.

If he had cared to look any further, he may have noticed the disturbing objects in their containers, pickled and prodded with manic care. He may have noticed the corner devoted to lunar studies, or perhaps the violin that laid suspiciously in the corner.

He makes it to the middle of the clearing before he snaps to his senses.

"No it's just a skull, not the same one, I'm sure… I'm sure tons of people have a _skull_," John laughs nervously and frantically, squinting in the sunlight. He reaches into a grimy pocket, pulling out his mobile.

**Do you have a secret bunker in the middle of a forest, on the outskirts of northern London?**

He texts Mycroft, because this seems like the sort of this Mycroft would be aware of. Bloody hell, he's aware of everything.

**I beg your pardon? M**

The answer comes back surprisingly quickly; but what could you have expected from _the_ British Government?

**Are you aware of the existence of a secret, creepy-as-fuck room hidden in a boulder in the woods?**

John waits, holding his breath.

**Oh. Yes. But it's not mine. M**

**John, I should warn you to take care. I won't mention anything more. M**

Okay, then. Thanks for that, I guess.

**Helpful, Mycroft.**

No response. Busy, John supposes. But this confirms it; Mycroft is involved somehow.

John shakes his head, sighing. It was time to get out of here, maybe talk to Lestrade about this.

He stuffs his phone into his pocket, and starts to walk out of the clearing. A walk would do him good, if he didn't immediately find his way out. There was no doubt that his army days were over, but that was no excuse for not staying fit. And he didn't have anyone to drag him around the city now.

Just as he steps into the trees, John's foot finds something soft. He looks down.

It's an arm. A pale, skinny arm. The palm is open, relaxed, and flopping down onto the mossy forest ground.

And in that moment, everything shifts.

"Oh, _Christ_, what… who is this?"

The arm appears to be connected to a body, and John kneels on the ground. The knees of his jeans are getting soaked, and muddy, but John doesn't care. He's a doctor, and doctors always want to help anyone who needs it, no matter what. They have an incentive to care, to make sure everything is alright, and it's what makes them so good at what they do.

John furrows his brow, looking at the slender fingers sprawled out on the plants that have collected on the floor.

He gives the arm a yank, pulling a body out from the undergrowth.

There's a toned chest, which is scarred any bruised. The ribs of the man are showing, and everything about him screams _malnourished_. And it is most definitely a man. A very naked man, in fact, but a good doctor never lets nudity faze him. He has cuts all up his legs, crimson standing out amongst the skin that appears almost white in the bright sunlight.

There are nasty gashes at his torso, and the man has bare feet. His pulse it steady.

John gives the body another yank, pulling the man's face from the shadows.

Curly, dark brown hair frames a thin, alien face. His eyes are blackened, his mouth covered in blood. His, - or someone else's – it is impossible to tell.

This isn't what has John staring down incredulously. But you've already guessed that, haven't you?

No, John is staring at the familiar, impossibly high cheekbones. He's staring at the closed eyelids, behind which he knows are intense, calculating eyes of an uncertain color. He's looking at the sleeping face of a man he knows shouldn't be here, and he's trying to find answers, but he can't.

John feels himself tearing up. "No… No this isn't… he's _dead_, you're fucking _dead_!" He shouts at the body, gripping his hair in his hands.

It really is too much sometimes.

The figure on the ground opens his blue-gray eyes, peering at John with alarm, and a startling amount of sadness. He pushes himself up into a sitting position, looking at the very broken man hiding his face in his hands and kneeling by his side.

Sherlock purses his Cupid's bow lips, and opens them tentatively.

"John?"

John looks up at him with haunted eyes.

"Sh-Sherlock?"

* * *

**A/N: I do feel like all the chapters I've done so far are kind of empty. I apologize if it's little reward for waiting a week for them; but I just got done with a school project I've been working on, so you can expect updates more frequently now. And we're starting to get into the story, which I am excited for! I really hope I can get new chapters up twice a week, which *should* be possible. I hope. So expect a new one Thursday or Friday! **** Review, as always!**


	4. Odd Reunions

**A/N: Hey! We've got the classic reunion scene here, hope you find it accurate.**

**I had a really, really hard time, because the original John Watson, from the books, was very chill. There's this one story (can't remember which) where Sherlock has to study a case involving some drug and tests it on himself and John. John has to be dragged out of the room after he passes out, and when he wakes up he's all 'well that was interesting. Sherlock, what did you find out?'**

**I, however, truly feel that it wouldn't really be out of character for John to tear his hair out and things at times. So I wasn't sure what should happen.**

* * *

Odd Reunions

"Sh…Sherlock?"

John pushes himself into a standing position, shoulders pulled back defensively and eyes wide. Not unlike a threatened animal, he starts to back away, with small, panicked steps.

xOxOxOxOxOx

Through media of all sorts, the 'slowly backing away' has become a typical action of someone who is scared. The need to distance yourself from the threat, the danger, has obviously made itself present many a time, in many a situation. It is a subconscious and perhaps instinctual action. In animal demonstrations, the creature will prick its ears back and call for the rest of its pack, or for some of the family it belongs to.

John doesn't have a family to go to, as far as he's concerned. So the connection with an animal will not extend in that direction for him. The only person who makes it purely by decision that he won't be calling for help is his sister Harry; the alcoholic, the rebel, the person who never really took care of John, even if she was the only one who could. It was complicated, all of it. John's parents had died a long time ago, though. He didn't feel their death anymore, and their presence in his heart had disappeared entirely. Almost without him noticing it. It was all just as well. They never were proud of their only son. Even though it was highly hypocritical, with Dad's drinking and the way Mum never cared about anything or paid attention to her children.

And everything had always been fucked up like that. It had led John to Afghanistan, after all. And it was all a dreadful business, much like the one at present. It had awakened something in a restless little boy who was worried for his entire family.

Fright.

An interesting sign of fear is the dilating of your pupils: the adrenaline that courses through your veins in times of need makes this happen. Your pupil is the part of your eye that sees and perceives, so they expand to let more light in. (letting you see the landscape more clearly.)

In fact, many abilities vital to your survival are brought on by the natural chemical adrenaline, all designed to help your body and mind work together to live. We catalogue walking steadily backwards, to put distance between yourself and the threat, being able to lift heavy objects with a surge of power and dilating pupils as symbols of our instinctual intelligence; although the black centers of a human eye will often widen when a potential mate is in the room as well. Sherlock has come to that conclusion and used it many times.

Conclusions, conclusions; defined as _(1.) The end or finish of an event or process, and (2.) The summing-up of an argument or text. _We can use the word in a different sense than that of Sherlock's conclusions to describe the situation at hand; which is the end of a long separation. And it was voluntary, even if necessary.

That would be the hardest hit.

xOxOxOxOxOxOx

Unfortunately for John, he was too worried about what he was seeing in from of him to notice anything behind him or calculate his bodily reaction to seeing Sherlock Holmes once again – so, naturally, he tripped over his own feet. They had stumbled across a log that was slippery with lichen, and John found himself tumbling to the floor before he had a chance to catch his breath.

Through this entire episode, Sherlock didn't move; didn't speak. He kept his lips pursed and watched the unfolding scene as calmly as he always had. At crime scenes, during awful family dinners and investigations, and sometimes both, Sherlock had always kept the same face. Neutral, uncaring, unless he was acting. He was always removed from the situation, and it had proved intimidating on many occasions. Who could question a man who was as sharp and as cool, and also as unexpected, as a throwing knife?

There were times when this cool demeanor helped Sherlock in his work, yes, but it wouldn't help him now. He really should have realized that, read it in John's face. It should have stared him directly in the eyes; but the Holmes' greatest flaw could possibly be his lack of human understanding. Sherlock didn't know why people felt the way they did, and couldn't predict how they would be. It was why he had given up on them years ago.

But it was honestly so very long since he had seen the doctor, and Sherlock's eyes were eating him up hungrily. Even if it didn't show on his face, he saw John's semi-muscular body; his sandy-blonde hair and his slight limp (it was back, then. That man needed to get a hold of himself!) and Sherlock couldn't pull his eyes away. But nobody knew this, apart from himself.

Scarred, tan skin that had been haunting Sherlock's dreams for all the months he had been gone was finally here, in the flesh. And it was accompanied by chocolate eyes and the endearing face of a man old enough for kids, but choosing to be one instead. He was his own child, his own problem at heart.

And Sherlock liked that about him so, so much.

But it didn't show, and Sherlock hadn't wanted it to, of course.

John looks at the detective (who manages to look like he owns the entire forest just by lounging on the ground), trying not to sweat or fumble with his words.

"So... you're alive, then?" There's a hitch in his voice.

Sherlock looks John straight in the eyes, the mysterious grey-blue meeting dark, murky orbs the color of dark, ocean waves.

"John,.. I'm… sorry."

And then John loses it.

"Sorry?" he repeats, feeling the taste of the word on his tongue. It was not unfamiliar. "Sorry, sorry, sorry…." John gives a manic chuckle.

Sherlock starts to speak.

"I didn't want it to happen like this… damn it, why couldn't you have just stayed at Lestrade's party? No doubt it was terribly boring, but you could have just stayed there, stayed safe..." Sherlock looks down, biting his pale lips with gleaming, (and rather sharp), teeth.

John suddenly explodes, all delusion gone and replaced by a beast roaring in his chest – begging to be freed. It had wanted to be let loose ever since it had burrowed into John, somewhere at the back of his mind. It had been growing closer and closer, and now _this._ The beast set fire to John's insides, so much that he could almost feel it burning in his eyes.

"Oh, so it's _my_ fault. It's all my fault; look at you, you're fucking _Sherlock Holmes_ and you don't give a rat's ass who anybody _else _happens to be! It's never your bloody fault, ever! And what didn't you want to happen, exactly? Didn't like the way I found you bloody, battered, naked and lying in the middle of the fucking forest? Was this not to your liking? Shall we try again? Not to mention the fact that you're alive. Fucking alive, after all this time! Mind telling me how the _hell_ you managed to pull _this_ one off?"

Sherlock opens his mouth, but John puts his hand up.

"No, actually, I don't give a shit how this happened. All I know it that it did! That you, fucking _Sherlock Holmes_, faked your own fucking death to go and pass out in some random forest! Do you do this often? Have there been many before me? Did you mess with their heads as well, make them think that you were their friend before pulling this one? I don't know why you went to all the trouble to have a dramatic exit, when all you had to do was fucking shoot yourself in the head, woulda had the same effect!"

John takes a deep breath. For a moment, Sherlock thinks he'll have a chance to say something, _anything_; but John isn't finished yet.

"Wouldn't have made me miss you any more, or less. Because you were dead. And hell, I almost was too! Last night, in here, I was chased by this gigantic fucking wolf, into some weird as fuck hideout from a Bond film! For Christ's sake!"

And then something dawns on him.

"That was yours, yeah? Oh, I should have known. Even the fucking skull was there, you seem to be able to be more open to that damn thing than to me!"

John stops for a moment, red in the face. Sherlock makes an inaudible sound.

And John remembers the texts.

"Wait… Mycroft? _Mycroft_?! He knew about this? For how long?"

Sherlock looks at John with a calculating expression on his face, not sure what to expect. But he answers anyway, still calm as he delivers the line in his deep baritone.

"I needed him. I needed help."

"Oh, you're bloody right in thinking that you need help, Sherlock! If you think that it's _normal_, _acceptable_ to fake your own death, then be discovered like this!"

Sherlock stands up, not bothering to cover himself. His body is just transport, after all; no need to be ashamed of it.

"John, it's complicated."

"When is it not, Sherlock, when is it not..."

"It's different from anything we've ever had to deal with before."

"Yeah? I would hope you had a fucking good reason for jumping off a building, oh pardon, _pretending to_. Since you've never had to do it before. That _I_ know of."

Sherlock grips John's arm. He looks genuine; and genuinely scared. Not something very common. For a second, John almost stops. He almost tries to comprehend what could lead someone to do something so drastic. Almost.

"This has been fun, Sherlock."

But Sherlock doesn't let go.

"This is bigger than all of us. Bigger than you, or what I want. Hell, if it was up to me, we would be at home watching crap telly and waiting for a case. I never wanted to leave you, and you have no idea how much I've wanted to return. Ever since I left. It's hurt me inexplicably, like nothing ever has before, John.." There's a sparkle in Sherlock's eyes; the kind of sparkle that has almost never been seen in those eyes before.

"Yeah?" John starts nastily, "me too. I was the one who was left behind to feel like shit while I buried a body."

Sherlock draws back, gulps.

"It needed to happen. To ensure your safety."

"Oh, so it was for me then? It was all for me, for my own good? Well, Sherlock bloody Holmes, I can tell you now that it wasn't for the better. Damn it, I've cried for you. You don't know how many times I've sat, hoping you would come home, strut in like you always did. I wouldn't even have minded it if it were a coke-binge, even though I _told_ you I would walk out after another of those. But not even that; not even that. You can't give me one good reason this was _needed_!"

"Shit, John, it was-"

"I don't want your excuses-"

"If you'll just let-"

"_I don't want to hear it_-"

"MORIARTY!"

Sherlock shouts the last word, and it reverberates through the closely-packed trees that still surround the pair.

He doesn't know why, but when he says that, it's like a weight is being lifted off his chest, and he can breathe again. It's like every breath he takes from then on is clean and crisp as a summer's dawn. The truth about Moriarty's plan has been weighing down on Sherlock ever since he had found it out. It pressed against his chest, constricting his lungs and sending him into claustrophobia. This was all figurative, of course; but it was so strong it almost felt real.

Despite being alone for most of his life, Sherlock has genuinely enjoyed John's company. He had brought joy and peacefulness to the detective, who was usually dismissive of all the stupid morons he met (and any other forms of life.)

And after getting used to the company, living alone and isolated was twice as hard. Five times as hard. It had used hundred's of nicotine patches already, and would have used more if the doctor hadn't shown up.

Sherlock's voice drops even lower as he stares at John, straight in the eyes.

"Moriarty. He was coming for you, Mr. Hudson, even Lestrade. Do you think I could just sit there and fucking let that happen? The only friends I've got, I've ever had? It was needed, and it was to protect you, and I wish that saving people didn't fuck with everything we established in the time I've known you, but it did. And I don't want to lose you, John. Nor Lestrade, nor Mrs. Hudson. Not ever.

"But he has connections, and _oh_, what connections he has. I once said he was like a spider, sitting in the middle of his giant web as he spins out lies and eats juicy morsels that he weaved into the web. I find myself right."

Sherlock looks straight ahead, as his voice goes quiet and his shoulders drop. He looks battle worn as he delivers the concluding line of his argument.

"And now, he's back... And he's going to ensure that he ends me… And everyone I know, everyone I've ever cared for, will go down with me in this boat, which is fucking sinking by the second."

John seems to have collected himself by now. He rests his head in his hands, breathing hard.

There was nothing to go on about anymore, really. He had said what he could. Sherlock seemed to think that this rare display of emotion he was having would cut it for the apologies. It wouldn't, however; things didn't happen like they did in the movies - where there was The Big Confrontation, then the souls who had been fighting fucked each other raw and claimed devotion with messy kisses afterwards. And they would sit it bed, and rest their heads on each other's shoulders and talk about how 'everything is gonna be all right, baby' while butterflies few around the room.

But wait – John didn't want that, right? He was… straight. Well, except for that one time - and those episodes in the army… but those didn't count. Lots of things happened while men were desperate and practically begging for sex; they didn't care who it came from and it was always good to escape reality. John wasn't gay. It was had just been the heat and the tired ache of his muscles that time. And the other; that was a mistake. A foolish, stupid mistake mixed in with misunderstanding. No, John liked women. Just women. It had always been like that. It will always _be_ like that.

Right?

The point was, Sherlock wasn't going to get off this easily. Not if it turned out he had gone through hell, or wasn't, _couldn't_ be a virgin after all…

John is flummoxed – and embarrassed. For no particular reason exactly, just at himself for thinking about such things. Why _was_ he thinking like this? He shakes his head, rubbing his eyes. He's tired. He's drugged. Things are just dandy, perfectly normal.

_Stop_. _You are_ straight. _Get back to the subject on hand._

_Who isn't wearing any clothes, _whispers a nasty voice in his ear.

_Bugger off._

John thinks of all of this in a matter of moments, memories flying by as quickly as lightning. The internal taunting and teasing he put himself through took even less time.

Sherlock, unperturbed by the absence of his clothing, or John's voice, is still silent.

John speaks; out loud, this time. "Well, I figured he never _died_. Didn't imagine he'd be back though. But what has he done to threaten you since your last encounter?"

Sherlock stares blankly ahead, choosing his words carefully.

"Everything is tied up into one, connected in some way. It's all based off of one fact; something you have remained in the dark about. You said you were followed by a, erm, _beast _the previous night?"

"Yes," John answers monotonously. Why Sherlock has to be dramatic like this, John wonders.

"Well," Sherlock begins, "there are many things in our world that deny common explanation, or, in fact, a scientific one. I might tell you one now, if you'd believe me."

"Oh, fuck it, stop with the clichés. Heard them all before, so don't bounce around the subject. You're obviously going to say something pretty fucking unbelievable, so look me in the eye and say it. I'm honestly _very_ tired of your shit."

Sherlock blinks, a slight smile curling his lip as he looks toward John.

"As I said, there are things that deny common explanation. I am one of them," Sherlock stops to glare at the doctor, who was rolling his eyes. "Don't look like that, you know that's not what I mean. I mean that I am special, different in a…. Different way. I turn into beast once every month, and it is entirely out of my control. Popular culture calls it a werewolf. Though they have many things about us wrong, and terribly so."

John throws his hand up into the air. "Okay, Sherlock. You're a werewolf. Great show, wonderful script. Applause, though I can very happily say there will be no need for an encore."

Sherlock doesn't blink. He just stares at John, looking a bit amused but mostly just superior. _I once again know more than you do, and I once again prove myself to be special._

"I'm not joking, you know. This is very serious business."

_Oh, god_. And he looked serious, too.

* * *

**A/N: I'm having fun, now.**

**PLEASE review; tell me if I am characterizing Sherlock and John right. Does it sound like them? Is this accurate? If it's not, what am I doing that makes it so? I would **_**really**_** appreciate feedback.**

**By the way, new chapter comes out Sunday as usual, so you won't have to wait too long to see what happens next****.**


	5. Explanations

**A/N: CHRIST, I'M SO SORRY. Sunday night, just as I was about to post, my internet went down. Finally got it working again just now! And I promised the chapter Sunday. *hides***

**I would never purposefully lie to you guys. Ever. :*)**

* * *

Explanations

"Sherlock, if you expect me to... To just, _believe_ this… I mean, apparently, you're fucking alive, and that's pretty… outlandish as well. I mean, I'm probably dreaming, right? Hallucinations, maybe? From the thing in that dart…"

"John, I can assure you I am real."

"Well, if you are, you're a dick. You know that?"

Sherlock puffs air out of his mouth, looking at John the way he usually looks at Lestrade when he's not getting something. On the Sherlock's-looking-at-you-like-you're-an-idiot-o'meter, Anderson was the worst it could get. His facial expressions slowly moved from Sally to Dimmock, to the average moron on the meter, then finally to Lestrade when he was being _particularly_ stupid. Some of the best praise you could ever get from Sherlock Holmes would be at a John, of course. Him, and the serial killers. They were neck-in-neck for the top spot.

Sherlock was at a Lestrade through Sally, right now. He was merciful enough to spare John the humiliation of being given the level of exasperation he reserved for the hated forensics employee.

"I already told you! I explained."

John is quiet for a moment. Then;

"Sometimes that's not enough, Sherlock."

And however much Sherlock doesn't want to see it, however much he tries not to, he does. John was put through a lot, all because of him. Whatever he experienced, John went through more. Sherlock had been dead. Buried, called names, and forgotten. Almost.

Nothing could be worse than that. Sherlock suddenly sees himself in John's position.

He's walking in a cemetery and the wind is lapping at his face as furiously as an excited mutt. It licks with swift, cold breaths and throws his hair askew; makes his hands reach to his neck to flip up the collar of his coat. All around him he sees death, and the sun doesn't shine; how could it? And he follows a well-worn path to a grave that he knows so well in this alternate universe. John's name stares back at him, and he's never going to come back. John will never smile at him again, not ever…

All these images flood Sherlock's mind, and he has to shake his head to be rid of them. It's not real, none of it. It's not real.

"Fine… But have I ever lied to you, John? Would I do that?"

John gives a harsh laugh.

"Yes. When you jumped off that fucking building, when you told me you were _fake_. That was lying, Sherlock. And what you said wasn't a couple of fucking white lies." John stops, and then adds, "no matter what the damn purpose was."

They were to save him and everyone 'friendly' with Sherlock; if the detective is to be believed. Could he be? It all makes John as confused as he was the day he met Sherlock Holmes. But it's not a pleasant sort of confused. It's a weary, not-too-accepting sort of the feeling that hovers over John and makes him want to run for the hills, screaming. Sherlock has never lied to him before this, but it would be damn hard for anyone to just let it go when their practically only close friend dies; and then shows up right as rain.

It was all part of the baggage gained by dealing with an arrogant git who solves crimes for a living, John supposes.

Sherlock, meanwhile, is practically tearing his hair out on the inside. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. John was supposed to understand.

"Yes, but I… I'm perfectly serious right now."

"Sherlock, I would do a lot for you, I admit it. But this is a hell of a lot to believe. You must actually think you're a … a _werewolf_," John laughs, "for you to be going on like this."

"That is because it's like I've always said; people are morons. They're so ignorant, John! They write positively dreadful books about all these 'miracles of science' or whatever they so chose to call them, and don't realize that the subjects of what they are composing are actually right under their noses the entire time."

"Sherlock..."

"Wait! I can prove something to you! The result of my many experiments with my particular… species," Sherlock's face lights up, eyes wide and grinning.

"Oh Christ, you're doing _the face_ again."

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. "Sorry."

John gives an exhausted sigh, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.

There wasn't much he could do except give Sherlock a chance. Maybe try to find some way to help him, after it was over.

Fine. It was like that, then. Fine.

No, actually, it wasn't. It wasn't fine. Sherlock was alive after all they had been through… after everything they had agreed upon, spoken or through words that needn't be exchanged. Sherlock knew that doing something like this wasn't acceptable. He could have at least told John the truth about why he had jumped, those many months ago. John had thought he was dead. _Believed_ it. The most earth-shattering thing about everything was the fact that Sherlock couldn't be honest with him.

And now he was finally ready to be, and he's spewing out rubbish about Werewolves while he sits in the middle of a forest. Nude.

"Um… Sherlock, do you think you may want to put on some… some pants, first?" John says this lightly, his voice a little more high-pitched than usual, even in their present situation. He looks the detective up and down, going a bit red in the face. He's surprised that this is what comes out of his mouth, out of all the thoughts in his head.

It still needed to be said, though.

Sherlock's skin gets a red tint as well.

"Oh… I suppose. The transformation, you know..."

John huffs. He would follow Sherlock to wherever he was going to go, let him have his chance. It's not like he could _actually_ prove anything. Maybe John could get him a couple meetings with his therapist after this was done.

But deep in John's stomach, a weight settles. Why would Sherlock fake his death, if there wasn't' a fairly big threat? Or an unusual one?

Sherlock starts to walk towards the boulder, on which, John knows, is a secret door. James Bond worthy, easily.

It reminds John a lot of Irene Addler, the way Sherlock is walking. He had had the decency to blush a bit at his situation earlier, but now he strutted towards the rock like he was on the runway. With a graceful lope, and his head held high.

John had quite a nice view of a rather nice arse, but he just rolled his eyes and looked towards the sky above them. It was getting grayer by the second, or so it seemed. Clouds were rolling across the great dome, looking none too friendly.

The trees swayed menacingly, and a cold breeze was growing; though it couldn't be later than ten o'clock in the morning. The winter storms usually came later in the day, didn't they?

John pads over to the gray mound of rock, where Sherlock is waiting for him, slender form bent over the large object.

"Now where is it… hmm…"

Sherlock bites his lip, feeling the boulder.

"Aha! There." He looks pleased with himself.

John offers no sign of congratulations, just tiptoes into the room. It's familiar, dark walls and shadows and gleaming instruments.

"Did you make the… _security_ yourself?"

"Hmm?"

"You know, the dart-throwing-thingy?" John hates to use the word 'thingy', but he doesn't know what else to call it. Sherlock snorts, as expected.

"Yes, I did. I fashioned it out of spare parts from _thingies_ that I had."

"Bugger off."

Sherlock grins. He's missed this. All of the nights, spent alone or trying to figure out a cure. He's wanted to hear John's voice, telling him anything; calling him brilliant _or_ calling him a dick.

John leans against one of the tables while Sherlock darts into the room and turns on a hidden light, looking for something to wear.

"So, how did you get all of this here? I mean…" But John stops as he sees the pants Sherlock has pulled from a drawer. They're slightly worn, but other than that, perfectly acceptable. Except…

John scoffs. "_Bees_?"

The underwear, is, in fact, patterned with small bees criss-crossing on the fabric. They're bright, yellow, and numerous. Little cartoon smiles are drawn on their faces, antennae ridiculously curly. It looks like something you could find in a small infant's bedroom, on the wallpaper or perhaps patterned on the curtains.

Sherlock goes _very_ red in the face this time.

"Greg thought it would be… _funny_, one of our dreadful Christmas parties. I had just expressed an interest in bees. I wasn't amused."

John, meanwhile, cannot stop laughing.

Sherlock starts to get defensive, frowning. "Is it really any different from the pants that you wear?"

John is laughing too hard to hear. If he had, he would be confused.

"Red*… rather _childish_, don't you think?" Sherlock says conversationally.

John shuts up then.

It was nice, to be like this again. It had been so long for both of them; many nights had been spent lying awake for either companion. Sherlock, in his… cave, you could call it, and John in the empty flat.

Surprisingly often, Sherlock's dreams had been plagued with glimpses of the man he had left behind. They were always very sad, mostly because Sherlock could never do anything in the dreams. He was forced to be an observer, who couldn't touch the scene or call out in any way. There was darkness around him, above him, below him, and he couldn't move his body, and everything he heard sounded like it had travelled a long way to get to his ears; like he was underwater, drowning. In the mornings, he would be filled with the same emptiness, but it seemed to have grown overnight.

Among all the sorrow and loss, however, there was always a glimmer of hope. _I can come back_, Sherlock told himself. _It's not over yet._

Of course it wasn't. Moriarty had collided with Sherlock; an unstoppable force with an immoveable object. And what was going to happen? Chaos. An explosion would ensue. Right now, there was just the calm before the storm, and they were both biding their time.

Sherlock would gladly destroy himself to defeat Moriarty. He would leave behind those he loved with less grace.

And so he had.

Billions of years ago, when the dinosaurs had roamed the earth, they had all been taken out by a meteor. The world had virtually been destroyed. But in the ashes, small organisms had sprung up and rebuilt the population. If dumb animals with a couple of brain cells each could pick up after everything was destroyed; dammit, so could he. Sherlock would go down fighting, and still manage to clean up. It was all he could do.

And so he had dreamed about it, every night, winning always just out of his reach.

John's dreams, when he did sleep, had been no less unwelcome. Sherlock dead, Sherlock bruised…. Sherlock gone. He could never do anything either, trapped in a body set in stone. He had woken up crying out, begging for anyone, someone, to help his friend. He couldn't.

John didn't' know what to do now, because Sherlock was back. John was confused. He was angry. But he still felt so… _empty_. This wasn't real. This wasn't real life.

But what could you do, in a dream, other than play along?

So John just thinks, leaning on a sparkling countertop as Sherlock gets dressed.

White tunic, worn jeans. He almost looks normal.

Well, except for the blood. He's in the middle of cleaning that up with an old rag, at the moment. But John is used to seeing Sherlock coated in that, so he isn't fazed. Sherlock came home on the _tube_, completely drenched in the stuff once. It wasn't his then, though. Was this? Actually, of all the times John had seen Sherlock bloodied up, it had never been in his own DNA; always someone else's. Like a serial killer. Is this what living with a serial killer was like?

That was what Donovan had said.

_No_. A psychopath and a sociopath (self-proclaimed) are two entirely different things. And Sherlock wasn't a sociopath. He cared. He cared too much.

Sherlock is rummaging through his equipment now, obviously looking for something. He can't seem to find it in the mess and it's clear that he really does need a housekeeper.

John remembers the thought he had earlier.

"Sherlock… how did you get all of this here?" The doctor motions towards - everything in the room, really.

"Well, there was a letter delivered to Mrs. Hudson detailing a certain individual's – _Moses C. Holkler's_ – dilemma and need of the very best scientific apparatus. He offered a high price for it all. Rather crude, buying it all back, but I did need it. I'm familiar with my own."

Sherlock puts a lot of stress on the name he says, and can't help smile a bit when he says it. He's smirking, actually. John knows he's missing something. An inside joke.

"'Moses C. Holkler'… Something about the name, right?"

Sherlock grunts, motioning for John to continue. He's still rummaging through tools and papers for something. The doctor thinks for a moment.

"Is it one of those… one of those things with the switched-around letters? Moses C. Holkler translates to Sherlock Holmes, yeah?"

Sherlock looks proud.

"An anagram, John. And yes, it translates to my name. Who else's?" Sherlock sticks his nose in the air, but is obviously enjoying this little chat.

"You've just been dying to show off, haven't you?"

But Sherlock doesn't answer; he seems to have found what he's been looking for.

The detective straightens up, holding a gleaming needle filled with liquid and a large scalpel.

John is horrified.

"You said you were clean," he starts accusingly.

Sherlock holds up his hand before John can continue.

"It's not cocaine, John. It's painkiller. Relax."

And, John is even more horrified.

"Well, why the hell do you need painkiller? Are you really in that much pain?"

He doesn't mean for it to come out so rude; but this man had been skipping around for about forty minutes now, and he looks fine. Why does he need painkiller? Or a scalpel?

Sherlock doesn't answer. He rolls up his sleeve, exposing a pale forearm which is illuminated by the soft light of the room. He suddenly grasps the needle in his right hand and plunges it into his skin, squeezing the drug from it. Sherlock's arm relaxes afterwards, and he tears his eyes away from it to look at John.

"A benefit to being a Werewolf is the fact that we heal very quickly. Thousands of times faster than the average human, in fact. It still hurts, though. Hence the painkiller."

Something clicks into place.

"Sherlock... the scalpel? Wait, no, don't-"

But John is too late. Sherlock is already digging into his own skin, quick and precise. Drops of crimson blood start to ooze down his arm and onto the table he is bent over. It's all John can do to not look away. And even then, it's not the blood; it's the fact that Sherlock is drawing his own that gets him.

The drops start to flow lighter, and farther and farther between. Sherlock straightens up, puts down the scalpel. It's dripping with blood, now, but he just tosses it onto the cluttered table. Sherlock grabs a rag, and wipes away the blood that had gathered on his arm.

"Watch."

To John's amazement, the flow has stopped completely.

Even more curiously, as he watches, the cut begins to heal. Pale, sickly skin spans over it first, then more joins that layer. They darken, and grow to be the same color as the rest of Sherlock, leaving nothing more than a faint scar on his even skin. Even then, it's miniscule. There is little sign that Sherlock was ever injured.

It was like watching a tape on fast-forward; something that should have taken weeks just happened in a matter of seconds. It's impossible, but it's so real. John watched.

He's looking at Sherlock with his mouth left open, now. Like he's forgotten about it. And he has – because there is much more on his mind.

This wasn't real. He was definitely hallucinating now. People don't heal like that; only in fantasy novels, with mythological characters, and… _Oh_. Werewolves. Some legends say things about inhuman healing abilities; John has heard his fair share of legends. (Mostly at night in Afghanistan. They would do anything to get everyone's minds off the war waiting for them outside.)

They had got it right, then.

Because this wasn't normal, is not something human.

Sherlock is smiling.

John is… well, he's on the floor now.

* * *

**A/N: Again, sorry for the delay; there wasn't anything I could do. But I do have all of Friday to write, so maybe I can make it up to you guys.**

*all things red and bee-patterned underwear belong to reapersun. You may have heard of these ideas before. If you haven't, I'll warn you that most of the stuff concerning "Red Pants Monday" is Johnlock and NSFW. Check it out on Tumblr, on Mondays, if you're into that sort of thing. (the whole idea is that John wears this red pair of underwear, and Sherlock wears the bee pair. It's _underwear, _and they're usually pictured_ together, _so you know what that can involve.)


	6. Making Sense

**A/N:**

** :)**

* * *

Making Sense

After John is settled on a ragged cot, eyes closed and pulse steady, Sherlock surveys the room.

It's about one o'clock in the afternoon now, according to his internal clock, and too late for breakfast. Not that Sherlock wanted to eat. Or that he had anything particularly edible in the room. It's 'particularly' edible because Sherlock supposes you could eat the hearts as a last resort, in the case of starvation. Maybe they wouldn't taste all that bad. He could cook them over a fire like the unfortunate souls in those survival shows, toasting the outside and drying the blood that had no doubt gathered in the thick vessels since their owner's demise. A fairly inhumane thing to do, but they were there anyway, weren't they?

Come to think of it, Sherlock can't recall with great clarity how he came upon the hearts. He had had them for a long time, looking towards the specimens time and time again to confirm his understanding of the muscle. Some cases had called for that. He didn't keep them out in the open, of course; John didn't need more body parts lying around, he knew. And Sherlock didn't need people thinking him to be a psychopath more frequently than they already did. Understanding criminals was one thing but keeping a collection of preserved and pickled organs was another.

Interestingly enough, John hadn't seemed to notice the unusual things that Sherlock had on display, yet. They stood out, certainly; most people would see them immediately due to their unusual nature or because of the sheer amount and quality of them. They're not blaringly obvious, cloaked in the dark shadows of the room, but still, Sherlock frowns. He'd honestly had more faith in his flat mate after the man had helped him solve so many difficult cases. (Not that he would ever admit to anyone that the former army doctor had aided him so much in his work.) But this was a good thing, John's ignorance. Something the detective didn't have to explain immediately. He could remove the jars, and never have to deal with a horrified glance from John, who was likely to be horrified without the extra help. Sherlock remembers the looks he had gotten while at school, when classmates had heard of the rather unusual extracurricular activities he had taken part in while in his youth…

Ah, 'extracurricular activities' indeed! Sherlock had taken part in a fair amount of gory police cases before he had even reached the age of sixteen, starving for something to occupy his time. Most of them took place during school hours. His professors had been delightfully pissed at him most of the time, and just the thought of them still brought tears to Sherlock's eyes.

They had all been a load of idiots, most less than masterful in the subjects they taught. Sherlock had spent an enormous amount of his school days in Scotland Yard, being given dubious glances for being so young. On the times he had actually showed up to his classes, he had annoyed and corrected the teachers so much that a couple had actually resigned from their positions by the end of his schooling. He couldn't be expelled, of course; Mycroft had sent monthly checks to the institution to ensure that he wasn't. The headmaster had hated him nonetheless.

Actually, hated wasn't what Sherlock would describe it as. His headmaster's feelings toward him had been more like _fucking-hell-you-troublemaking-shit-spawned-of-the-devil-why-did-you-have-to-be-born-just-get-the-hell-out-of-my-office. _Sherlock knew this from all the conversations he had listened in on with the small microphone he had planted under the headmaster's desk.

He had thought it amusing then, and still did. It reminded Sherlock a lot of those spy films John liked to watch. What were they called again? James Bone?

No, that couldn't be right. Mention of skeletons doesn't qualify as a 'cool name'. Of course, they always had to have a great name. Sherlock couldn't care less about what the character was called, himself; it was just as stupidly dramatic if the hero was called Fitzgerald instead of _'Lightning'_ or something equally ridiculous.

Okay, maybe if the guy was called Anderson, he would have a problem. But other than that…

Sherlock's mind often wanders like this these days, chasing itself in circles. It was quite like a horribly lonely dog at times, starving for attention but keeping up with what it was doing nonetheless. No one to throw a bone, or scratch its stomach (this is what Sherlock would be fondest of, as a dog. Someone praising him.) But he had no one to talk to, could only be consumed by his thoughts day after day.

And they plague him. They gnaw at his insides, incapable of escape.

John's sudden appearance is like a gift, in this way. A present that is gleaming and shining like it is from heaven above. Sherlock rather likes to think of John slowly falling out of the sky, skin glowing in a spotlight of sun, while the disgusting singing of angels accompanies his smile. The thought makes _Sherlock_ smile.

Okay, so maybe he's gone a little loony, cooped up here. But it was worth it – it was all being done for the purpose of stopping a monster. Jim Moriarty.

If Sherlock was to continue his clichéd musings, Jim would have a creepy stare and a sour grin. He would laugh in the way that all the villains seem to do, rubbing his hands together in malice while half his face isn't visible to observers, dressed in the shadows of some secret hideout.

Why did the 'bad guys' always rub their hands together like that, anyway? Was there some sort of villain hand lotion that they were all addicted to using? That was probably why Jim's hands had seemed do delicate and soft, the few times he had had physical contact with Sherlock. He was manning an illegal hand lotion operation, and was given access to all the hand cream he could ever want.

_Yes_, Sherlock thinks, _he's definitely gone a bit mad_.

Maybe in a good way. Maybe not. More likely, in a Jim-ish way. Sherlock likes to think of Jim Moriarty as Jim, sometimes; it makes everything so much more personal. And Jim had never called Sherlock 'Holmes', so it was kind of called for. They knew each other well enough by now to be on a first name basis.

If he was taking after Jim, (psychologically, of course) though, it wouldn't really matter. No one would care, would they? Certainly not Mycroft. _He had never cared in the first place_, Sherlock thinks bitterly.

Although Sherlock isn't right. Mycroft had and did care about him; he just wasn't the type to show it – and was also the type to make mistakes.

The only person who would care if Sherlock went over the edge, or so Sherlock thinks, is John Watson. He had cared when Sherlock had gone over the edge of St. Bart's, so he would probably care in a more psychological sense, right? The truth is, Sherlock doesn't really know. He can't read John like he can with everyone else he meets. It's what makes the doctor so intriguing.

He needs to think. Sherlock grabs his violin, begins to play.

The man in question grunts in coming out of his passed-out state, eyes flicking open, and lifts his head up from where it rests on the course, stretched fabric of what he identifies to be a cot.

Of course, as soon as he does this, he has to lay his head right back down again. He feels like he has a hangover – and he's had far too many of those.

"Damn," John mutters.

And then what he witnessed the last time he was conscious comes rushing back to him, and he repeats the phrase.

John closes his eyes a moment, and then pulls himself up into a sitting position. That's the second time in twenty-four hours he's lost consciousness, though the first time in around thirty years he's ever fainted. John feels a bit embarrassed, in fact; it's not considered manly to flop onto the floor after witnessing something odd. _That was what the frightened wives or their little girls did._ John doesn't want to sound sexist or anything, as he's decidedly not; he appreciates women, likes when they have a kick about them and a little spunk. But falling down onto the floor is not the most masculine thing he's ever done when confronted with something startling.

It doesn't really matter now, though – there are other things to worry about.

John listens to Sherlock play violin for a moment, a somewhat angry expression on his face. _He can just sit there and play, can he?_

He turns his head towards the ceiling, giving a huff of displeasure. What the hell was happening, exactly? He had just witnessed Sherlock heal with improbable and impossible speed; or with a pace that John had _previously_ thought to be impossible. Now, he isn't sure.

Sherlock isn't the type to lie about something like this. And it explains an awful lot, whether John Watson wants to admit it or not. It explains why, before his faked demise, Sherlock had disappeared a few days once a month, to some unknown location. He had done this since John had first met him.

The first time it had happened, John had called Mycroft in a panic.

"_Have you seen your brother anywhere lately? He's been gone since yesterday – all I heard from him was that he was 'going out', and I haven't seen the bastard since!"_

_Mycroft had been silent, thinking. Unbeknownst to John, he had been calculating what to say in the absence of his brother. He made a decision, in the end – if Sherlock hadn't told this man everything, Mycroft certainly didn't have the right to._

"_He's nursing his cocaine addiction, like he does every month. He should be home in a few days time, Dr. Watson." and then he had hung up._

John had been horrified with this information, and had sat in the flat for the next two days, not sleeping and not moving. When he had finally opened the door to find Sherlock alive, if not a bit bruised, John had shouted at him for a good hour. The man had shrunk into the corner like a cowering animal, and hadn't answered any of John's (shouted) questions when they had been fired off in rapid succession.

Even so, Sherlock had continued going out, a few days at a time, always roughly after a month had passed. John had been reduced to waiting in the empty flat for days on end whenever this happened, wondering if Sherlock was alive somewhere.

Every time he left to 'nurse his cocaine addiction'; a sense of sadness had emanated from the detective, as though he truly did not want to go. _If you're so fucking unhappy, why do you do it?_ John had thought this bitterly and angrily, among other thoughts. Like the fact that Mycroft was a real bastard, to just let his brother do this to himself.

But did this newfound information explain all of that? Had Sherlock left because he _had_ to, not because he wanted to get high and probably fuck some woman (or man; John was still unsure of Sherlock's sexual orientation) that he had paid to do so?

Had he always left on the full moon? John's memory doesn't hold that information.

This was all impossible to believe, but it all made sense. It was like a light bulb coming on in John's brain; it explained everything, _everything_. It explained how Sherlock had managed to see little details, clear as day, when he was in an opposite corner of the room. It explained how Sherlock had been able to hear police cars from two blocks down and tell John what Mrs. Hudson was cooking before they even entered the flat (though he had always attributed this to observations he had made; _oh, she bought bread crumbs the night before, she must be using them for the dish she's cooking tonight; breaded chicken_; or _Mrs. Hudson's sister is coming to visit her tonight, of course she's making a cake._)

John opens his eyes. Plenty of weird things have happened to him before this; better to just accept them as they came, he had learned.

He's confronted with a nice view of the room, and a wide range of human hearts in jam jars is brought to his attention. John just closes his eyes again, then turns back to Sherlock as he opens them while pinching the bridge of his nose; _those_ could wait to be discussed.

John clears his throat with a noncommittal grunt.

Sherlock looks at the doctor, eyes shining bright and a soft glow playing with the shadows on his face. He stops playing his violin, and sets the delicate instrument down onto one of the cluttered tables.

"So… you're a… a werewolf," John starts awkwardly.

"Yes and no," says Sherlock.

"What do you mean, 'yes and no'?"

"A Werewolf is what it relates the closest to in common culture, but that is not truly what we are called. People like me are shape-shifters," Sherlock pauses, "sometimes referred to as children of the moon. The actual name for what I am is a lycanthrope, and we call ourselves this because it is widely believed that the Werewolf originated in Ancient Greece."

Lycanthrope was the Greek name for Werewolf. John doesn't think there's much difference there, but doesn't press the issue; Sherlock would likely start a fifteen-minute, one-sided conversation about how there _was_ a difference if John brought it up.

"And what do _you_ believe?" John asks interestedly.

Sherlock sighs, looking thoughtful.

"I think it is very probable that the first Werewolf came from Greece, as that is where a great amount of the legends seem to have started. None of the morons have ever gotten all our characteristics right, of course."

Same old Sherlock, then.

"And, you… expect me to believe all of this?"

Sherlock looks ruffled, a bit annoyed. But his eyes are earnest in a way that John rarely sees about them.

"Well, you saw my arm," Sherlock can't help but smile at remembering John's reaction, "and I think there is substantial evidence backing up what I say," he states, looking at John challengingly.

A shiver goes up the doctor's back as he stares at his companion.

"How long have you been like this?" John whispers.

Once again, Sherlock looks thoughtful.

"Since I was eighteen. I think you're well aware of my… past association with drugs, and one night, I was drunk, and I overdosed. I was in an abandoned alleyway, on the verge of death, when he found me."

At John's slightly questioning look, Sherlock clarifies.

"A lycanthrope. I think he fancied himself some sort of twisted savior, but he found me and bit me so that my life might be spared. He cursed me forever with his venom, which possesses a healing agent so powerful that it flushed away the drugs I injected myself with."

Sherlock's eyes glaze over and John can tell that he's revisiting the scene in his mind somewhere. John lets him.

xOxOxOxOxOx

_It's a secluded area behind the club, where he stumbles to. His body is crumpled and leaning against the alley's stone. The music from inside is pounding in his ears, pulsing beats that bring a numbed pain to his temples whenever they hit. The music consumes him and pushes its way to the front of his mind, until it stops him from thinking at all and carries him to a world of deep bass. It takes all of his concentration to stay rooted to reality, as his ears are polluted with sound. His vision is blurred and coming in scenes that flicker fast and escape his understanding, like everything is an old movie, and he is only an observer. Maybe it's real, maybe it isn't, it doesn't matter, really. He's sweating and shivering at the same time, delicate lips twitching. If he could see his hair, he would notice that the dark brunette locks were sticking up at strange angles, and wilting like dead, unnourished flowers._

_He isn't crying out, just coughing in wet, guttural gasps. He's covered in a mixture of his own warm vomit, piss and sweat. _

_He chokes as he throws up bile once more. It's mostly cheap whiskey and cocktail. It's bitter flavor makes him want to cut out his tongue._

_In the corner of his vision, he sees a figure approaching him. He doesn't really notice the man until he is bent down over his shivering body._

_The man takes his hair in his hands, yanking his head up and forcing his eyes to make contact. His body flails weakly and uselessly at first, but he soon falls limp and resumes his frantic gasping at the air._

_There are fingers under his chin, holding his head in place. Sherlock makes out the blurry image of a young man, maybe in his mid-twenties. He has bags under his eyes, which are open wide and manic-looking, and his hair is unwashed and matted._

_The man speaks._

"_Do you want to live?" he has a raspy voice. His eyes are set; he is about to do something._

_Sherlock registers the man's words in a small, sober corner of his brain. He nods, eyes darting hysterically. His pupils are dilated so much that it's painful._

_Before Sherlock even has a chance to take another breath, the man's eyes glow gold and he lowers his head toward his thin body._

_And then pain, wild, pulsing pain. He's on fire, being dipped in acid, being sliced open and doused in vinegar. The flames lick at his insides, spread from some point on his chest that seems to be the center of it all._

_He manages to form one conscious thought among all the pain. _

_This must be the end._

_After that, it consumes him, eats its way into everything he's ever thought, everything he ever will. It licks at the wounds it creates, nurturing them. Everything is flame and hurt._

_If he was still aware of anything but the pain, he would have registered his screams._

xOxOxOxOxOx

Sherlock seems to come out of his trance after a full minute of standing, poised near a table of his scientific instruments.

"The lycanthrope - his name was Victor. He taught me many things about our race." Sherlock's face hardens. "But that was a long time ago. He's gone now."

Sherlock clears his throat.

John says no more. Either this Victor fellow was dead, or he had betrayed Sherlock in some unimaginable way.

It was never prudent to ask Sherlock about anything personal; though he had apparently had some reason for not telling about his past, as it could lead back to his unique ailment.

Maybe someday, John would ask. But right now, he settles on inquiring about lycanthropy.

"So… is it like the myths, at least on the basics? You change once a month, at the full moon?"

It has to be once a month, because of the timing of Sherlock's 'coke binges'.

Sherlock only looks at John with sad and… frightened eyes. Frightened?

"It was. There are complications, now. It's why I left."

* * *

**A/N: Shall be updated Monday or Tuesday.**

**BTW, I've changed my penname. Sorry for the confusion, if any arises because of that.**


	7. A Flame

**A/N: I decided that I needed to devote an entire chapter to a conversation… and to explain this wonderful universe I've spent many sleep-less nights coming up with. I swear this story is eating me out of house and home… **

**So I hope it all makes sense. What I've come up with, I mean.**

**WAIT! I've also gone and re-named all my chapters because it just wasn't working for me. Okay, done now. Enjoy!**

* * *

A Flame

Sherlock sighs. "I suppose, before that, I need to tell you much more about therianthropy in general…"

"Erm… what's that?"

"And information on Jim, of course…"

"Jim? Wait – do you mean Moriarty?"

"Hmm…"

John comes to terms with the fact Sherlock isn't going to answer him. He leans back against the shabby cot.

Luckily, Sherlock is only immersed in his thoughtful silence for a moment longer. He suddenly springs upwards as he straightens up, clasping his hands together in a business-like manner.

"Well," he says, "I'd better start at the beginning."

Thank god, because John didn't think he could stand Sherlock prattling on about something without him having a clue what he was talking about. Sherlock was known to do that, sometimes; mostly when he was excited about an experiment.

John perks up, feeling rather like a child waiting for a story.

Sherlock pulls up a stool from somewhere, launches himself roughly onto it. He looks like a proud bird, perched on a branch. Long limbs are sprawled about, draped over the small chair. John admirers Sherlock's ability to portray his considerable arrogance in everything he does - at the moment, he is doing this by somehow managing to _lounge_ over a barstool.

John is content, yet anxious at the same. Mostly because Sherlock has that look in his eye that he gets when he's enjoying a case; excited, knowledgeable, and bracing himself for something – results? A confrontation? This look has never brought anything good: A black eye twice, multiple cuts and bruises on most occasions, and once, three broken ribs. Sherlock's 'job' was dangerous. Hell, everything that man did was dangerous. The man _himself _was dangerous. Self-destructive.

So what had being a magical creature, a supernatural being, brought him? What made all this information (that he was about to share) thrill Sherlock Holmes?

John thinks that this might actually be something Sherlock enjoys talking about. Something he studied; after all, it was inexplicable. Sherlock had invested his life in solving inexplicable things. He relished unraveling the mysteries. Had he unraveled this one? John doubted that, for some reason.

So the doctor is listening with his full attention now, contemplating everything he's heard thus far. He's kind of amused, actually, but John doesn't let this show on his face. He doesn't need death threats after all that's happened in the past twenty-four hours.

Sherlock, meanwhile, looks more or less like he's about to give a report at school. Sure, his shoulders slouch and he's in a rather improper position, but he had probably been that way at school anyway.

As he speaks illustrates everything with his thin, rod-like fingers. He looks like a painter who was relieved of his canvas and is using the air to portray his works.

"Along all this about 'Werewolves' comes something I'd rather not have to consider. Alas, there really is no other explanation that makes sense."

_(When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, __however improbable__, must be the truth.)_

Sherlock takes in a deep breath, as it preparing himself to say something particularly unpleasant.

"Magic."

Honestly, John isn't all that surprised. After what he's learned in the past day, magic sounds like a pretty sound explanation. Sure, it wasn't supposed to be real, but people weren't supposed to change into magical creatures once a month. This was all very seriously blurring the lines between real and make-believe, so why not go all out?

Sherlock obviously doesn't have John's same opinion on the matter. He gives his fingernails a distasteful look, having no one to take his discontentment out on. He would never take it all out on John, of course; not the man he had spent every second of his isolation here thinking about. Besides, he wasn't really all that perturbed by this part of the situation.

"I'd much rather like to think of it as some sort of energy transfer… but this is clearly a different type of energy than anything science is aware of as of yet."

"What do you mean 'clearly'? You've seen it in action, then?"

Sherlock gives a chuckle.

"I've devoted much of my adult life to trying to understand it." So John had been right, then. "And I am a rather… _magical_ creature, am I not? But I've never had experience with it quite so hands-on until now."

Sherlock suddenly sticks out his palm, rolling up his sleeve. John can see the faint scar that Sherlock made during his last demonstration.

"Don't tell me you're going to… not again…" John thinks that he might actually have a slightly green face right now, he feels so sick. There's a dropping sensation in his stomach and he really doesn't want to have to watch Sherlock hurt himself again, after everything he's done connecting to that. It brings up too many painful memories inside of John – awaken sleeping monsters he would much rather let hibernate.

He's spent a lot of time and energy putting them to rest.

Sherlock catches on to John's feelings quickly, and looks into the doctor's eyes. He's searching, apologetic. Sadness reflects in both of their eyes, along with unspoken words, and it bounces back from one glassy surface to another. If someone doesn't stop it, it will probably create a paradox and sweep them both up in the ruin.

So Sherlock's face softens while his eyes gain a hardness, a rock-solid determination that challenges the sharpest chisel to try and chip at.

"No. And never again will I, John. I will not leave you, ever again. Listen to me. Never. Do you understand?"

John breaks; he looks away from Sherlock's intimate gaze, turning his head toward his shoes for a second. He doesn't know how he should feel.

He runs his hands through his sandy-blonde hair, manages to choke out a soft 'okay'. It would have to be OK, wouldn't it? Yes. He'll take Sherlock's word that the man will never do that to him again. John won't be alone. And he won't let Sherlock be alone, either.

John turns his head back up to Sherlock's outstretched hand.

"Watch."

For a full three seconds, Sherlock waits. He lets John study his palm, trying to convey that it's nothing special. Nothing's different, it's just a normal part of his anatomy.

Then he clenches his fist.

It's effortless, what he does then. Like letting out a breath you had been holding in, blowing on a feather. There's a tickling sensation on his palm, but that's all. He's not burning or anything, either. Not that he had expected to.

The first time Sherlock had done it, he had been surprised by how _easy_ it was. He didn't know what he had expected – he didn't know how powerful he was. But it came naturally and Sherlock could see painfully clearly why Jim liked this. Liked being able to do it. Sherlock did, too.

He'd wanted to kill himself for feeling like that.

He's experimented, since he had discovered that he could do all this now. He had never expected to be able to; it makes him rather sick. And Sherlock is pretty powerful, to further his displeasure. He toys with the idea that he's just as powerful as Jim; this was passed on from the mastermind, after all. But he knew that would be too much of an advantage for Sherlock to have.

Thank goodness.

Sherlock unclenches his fist, slowly and dramatically. (He was always a stickler for that sort of thing. Mycroft, too – perhaps it ran in the family. Though Sherlock was horrified at the fact that he had anything in common with his brother whatsoever.)

A small, wispy flame floats atop his hand, resting in the concave of his palm. It flickers as he breathes, giving off a bright light that manages to smolder and blaze at the same time. Tiny sparks fly from it, and the flame looks like wind itself; captured and held to be taken out at leisure.

John doesn't know what to make of it. He thinks it might be violet, or green, but in reality it's a whole different color that anything he's ever seen before, just off the spectrum his eyes have learned to recognize. The fire looks different too, made of an essence of something more than a regular element. It flows like water, but has no form and can't take on the shape of anything imprisoning it – besides, what could? The flame is as free as a bird on the wind.

"This is…" John takes a breath as he leans closer to the fire Sherlock holds. "This is magic, then? And you're doing it? Can… Can all 'Lycanthropes' do that? Have you always been able to?" He can't stop the questions from falling from his mouth.

He's awestruck with the living flame that rests near his eyes; as he bends down to inspect it closer. It dances like a snowflake on the wind.

Sherlock wears a mask on his face, expression unreadable. He gives a small sigh, though, as he scrutinizes John.

The flame sputters and glows a green-like color, again unrecognizable and just as much off the usual spectrum of light as the violet-ish tone was. It's so real, three-dimensional that John forgets to breathe for a moment.

Suddenly, the warm glow is gone. The fire sputters one last time and goes out.

It leaves an imprint in John's vision and he blinks furiously for a moment, hoping to banish the dark blue stamp from what he sees.

Sherlock closes his fist once again; pulls away.

"No. Lycanthropes aren't supposed to be able to summon magic like that."

"Why can _you_?" John breathes.

It wasn't unexpected, Sherlock being an anomaly. He always was – this was Sherlock, after all.

Sherlock sighs. "Jim."

John can't fathom why he doesn't just say 'Moriarty' but doesn't push it; just gives an expectant look.

"Again, I should start at the beginning so not as to confuse you. Alright.

"This energy transfer – _magic_, I guess we might as well call it that. Magic, from what I've found out, is a source to be manipulated and reproduced and passed on. It can't be used up and you can't create it, only multiply what you already have. Anything or anyone who possesses it can grow stronger and try to build their supply of the substance with practice and certain herbs. You let it manifest inside of you to control it.

"It's actually everywhere, to the trained eye. I'm surprised that everyone has been so stupid as to not even notice it already."

Sherlock looks vaguely annoyed. John doesn't really understand, because isn't it a good thing that the magical community hasn't been found out yet?

"Over time, it has mutated into slightly different forms of itself, all producing different levels of control and ability. There are two types that deal with transformation, as far as I am aware. These are the only kinds I've ever had to deal with personally." He looks thoughtful for a moment. "Hold on, that's not true, I think I may have met a Conductor once..."

This was a lie. Not the Conductor bit, Sherlock had met more of them that he had ever wished to – the magic part.

He had seen so many forms of magic that he could write a book detailing each one. But they had only caused him grief, and hardship and strife in the past. He had run away from all that for a reason, and not a cowardly one. It was quite possibly the bravest decision he had ever made.

Sherlock sees no reason to explain all of this to John. He rather wanted to forget it all, actually. Everyone he had interacted with then, too.

He had a right to be able to keep his mouth shut, and everyone not to probe him on it. He had gained at least that, from everything he had seen and done.

John doesn't know anything about this.

"Conductor?" The man asks.

He really is interested. _That never did anything good for anyone_, Sherlock thinks.

Nonetheless, he responds, if absentmindedly.

"Conductor of magic; Commander. Somewhat like a Sorcerer, I suppose, complete with the reputation for less socially acceptable impacts being made with their power. But that's not the point here."

"And what is the point, exactly?" John inquires _pointedly_.

Sherlock hides a grin, despite his dark thoughts.

"Getting to it!" he sings.

He continues, "The two forms of metamorphoses that I deal with are Lycanthropes and Eklektos Therianthropes."

Sherlock stops, then adds, "both of which are therianthropic."

"Um, _excuse me_, but you do know that I have no clue what the fuck you're saying right now, right?" John points out somewhat politely, with a bemused smile.

Sherlock has a look on his face that suggests John's cluelessness in these matters was actually giving him physical pain.

"I said that we were dealing with transformations. Logically, one can assume that that's what therianthropy is, if you're not familiar with the term."

Sherlock sighs. "Eklektos is Greek for 'chosen'. So we can conclude from my other explanation that an Eklektos Therianthrope can chose what he or she turns into, can we not? Honestly-"

"Sherlock, do you actually expect me to translate everything you say from _Ancient Greek_?" John is exasperated. Sherlock is still horrified.

"What, didn't you take any language courses at university?"

"Yeah," says John sarcastically, "I definitely took Greek. Who the bloody hell takes Greek?"

Sherlock sniffs.

"I say again, what must it be like to be you? I can't fathom what goes on when you think. How hollow can one's-"

"Yes, thank you, everyone has heard that enough from you already," John cuts him off.

"Back to what you were saying? What's-it-opy?"

Sherlock gives John an annoyed glance but complies.

"Eklektoses – those who have the power to chose what they turn into, as a form of Therianthrope."

"Yeah, go on."

"They choose when they transform and what they transform into. This allows them to control the magic that courses through their bodies, unlike Lycanthropes."

"And you're different because…?"

In a corner of John's mind, he registers that Sherlock apparently has magic coursing through his veins. It feels like something that belongs in a fairytale.

"You wouldn't understand," says Sherlock infuriatingly. At the look John shoots his way, he hastily adds, "Yet."

He glares, "If you'll let me finish."

John makes a sweeping motion with his hands.

"The Eklektoses – we call them 'Snatches', generally – they have sort of become a mixture of shape-shifters and Conductors. They've realized their magic, which is in excess, and use it. Can you imagine how much energy you have to posses to be able to transform, manipulate your molecular structure, at will? Snatches are very powerful, needless to say. And _that_ paired with the characteristic of healing exceptionally fast, they are almost impossible to destroy. I think that Snatches are actually mostly made up of the magic."

Sherlock straightens up even more, no longer slouching on his stool.

"And where does Jim Moriarty fit it, you ask?"

He looks a bit delusional now, just a tiny bit. His eyes are wide and his hair is even more unruly now that it usually is. His voice goes rather high-pitched.

"Jim is the most powerful Eklektos I think I have ever met. And he wants to play a game."

Sherlock seems to be making an effort to have the most fake, sickly-sweet smile on his face as he says this.

John is reasonably surprised. But not too much.

_Of course, of course_, he thinks. This is why Sherlock had had to disappear. This is why he had left.

"Why you?" The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them.

"Why _not_ me?" Sherlock laughs frenetically.

"I think he admires my intelligence, my ability to solve problems. He wanted an equal to play against! But I'm not honored. He doesn't have anything to live for, other than the thrill of a game. Apparently, I'm now a player. But more like a piece."

Sherlock stares down at his hand. Clenches his fist, then opens it again. Watches.

"He evened out the score as much as he dared," he says softly.

"The magic?" John asks, though he needs no confirmation.

"Yes," Sherlock says, the soft tone still present in his voice. He even holds back the 'obviously' he had wanted to add.

"Well, isn't it good for you to have this advantage?"

Sherlock explodes. It's the only way John can describe it, the sudden flailing of slender limbs as the detective springs to his feet. His mouth is twisted in a snarl, making him look more deranged that ever.

"_I DON'T WANT THE MAGIC! I don't want to play the game!_"

Sherlock falters. "It hurts everything it touches, and contaminates everything with its sickly breath. And I don't want to fool around for a madman's amusement."

Oh, god. He looks – _broken_.

"I said that my transformations were different now. Do you remember?" He doesn't wait for a response. "It's because of the magic," Sherlock spits the word like it doesn't deserve to sit in his mouth any longer than it takes for him to think it.

"John, I'm changing four times every month now. Full Moon, New Moon, First Quarter and Third Quarter. It's messing with my DNA – changing the way I'm supposed to be. All for the power."

Sherlock re-creates the flame that had sat on his hand. Somehow, it doesn't look so beautiful to John now.

"For the game."

John walk over to the detective, grips the forearm that holds the fire. Sherlock puts it out, before turning to look at John.

"Sherlock – I'll help you. I promise, whatever it takes, I swear. You're a miracle," John says affectionately, and he means it. "And I won't let you face anything so alone."

Sherlock looks at him sadly, like a candle drenched in water.

"And _I_ can't let _you_ endanger yourself like that. No one deserves what's going to happen. Least of all you."

John just looks at him fondly.

"If you think I don't bloody know that, you have a bigger head that I thought. No, no one deserves it. You don't. I won't walk out on you like that. I never did, you know. No need to start now, is there?"

John gives a half-smile, looking up at Sherlock.

Sherlock wants to kiss him. But no; he can't risk building a relationship now – not with everything already happening. Jim would target John even more.

Not like John is interested anyway.

Sherlock's brow furrows instead, and he looks at the remarkable man who was this willing to help him.

"I can't stop you, can I?"

"No," John says.

"You know I'll do everything I can to make sure you don't get hurt."

Sherlock stares into John's eyes, begging him, pleading with him to understand the risk of the situation.

John wants to kiss him. But no; he's straight, that can't be right. It's just the intensity of this moment, the depths of Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock just needs a friend – with everything that's happening.

"Yeah," John smiles, "I do. And I'll do the same."

They both back away, study each other. They seem to have come to an agreement.

They're in this together, now. And Sherlock realizes that he wouldn't have it any other way.

* * *

**A/N: I really wanted them to kiss. Oh, Christ. But I need this relationship to develop through the tough times they'll both be put through – whoops! Spoiler!**

**:P**

**Expect an update Sunday!**


	8. Hold Your Hand

**A/N: Hai lovelies! I want to take a second to thank you for the wonderful feedback. There is no greater happiness (for me, at least) than to know that what I write is being enjoyed. [Insert sappy hug here]**

**This is chapter is half angsty back-story. I went off on a tangent and I **_**just. couldn't. stop**_**. On the bright side, this installment's really, really long (uneventful weekend :3 ), so you still get some actual events with that!**

**I'm also starting to introduce some darker themes into the story. While the light and airy tone somewhat remains, you'll start to get a glimpse as to what is really at stake and hurting everybody here.**

**WARNINGS: mentions of past abuse and violence in this chapter, along with the usual swearing.**

* * *

Hold Your Hand

John and Sherlock talk for a while. It might be verging on the edge of forty-five minutes, or it could be for an hour. Neither of them really knows. And that's alright, they suppose, because they deserve this undisturbed moment.

Sherlock is sprawled across a table (papers and diagrams were pushed uncaringly to the floor) and John rests his head contentedly against the wall. He leans back into the small, rough cot in the corner with his legs crossed, as if this is the most normal thing he's ever done. Then again, John has built up quite the immunity to odd happenings - truly mad ignorance of the abnormality of the situation is displayed on his face. Perhaps it is because of the fact that he's a doctor; they have to hide emotion and feeling all the while they sit and look after victims of dreadful burns or morbid attacks. The gruesome sight of charred skin, blackening and curling and framing auburn muscle, or the absence of chunks of flesh, ripped away and leaving gnarled tissue and red-stained skin, are all sights John has seen before. He deals with them; maybe only when he subs as an Emergency Physician at the hospital, but they leave imprints in your brain. So much that they haunt you when you close your eyes, letting you feel the cold of a child's heart without beat or the tangy, rusty scent of drying blood behind closed eyelids.

Perhaps John is taking everything so well because it's what he's been conditioned all his life to do. Perhaps he's taking it all and accepting it because it's what he did for Harry, and his own mum, and it's all he _can_ do. That's probably it; all John can do is stand up and face it all because his other options include leaving or breaking someone the way he's always been broken.

It's a curious thing that someone who had grown up in such a flat-out, tough world should feel so strongly about helping people. John and Harry practically lived on the streets in their youth, abandoned by a booze-crazed mother who wasn't aware of whether it was day or night half the time. They wandered off and begged for money and sometimes sniffed out abandoned meals; and every time mum came back to them (once in a blue moon,) John had forgiven her and cried and told himself that she would stay sober this time and everything's fine, it's all alright, she's sorry.

And even after all these consecutive promises has been trampled on, the paper they were symbolically printed onto used to wipe his sister's runny nose - (which she had caught from the cold of the unpaid heating bill) - John had wanted to help. He wanted to save people. Perhaps he didn't want anyone to turn out like him, stuck trying to liberate and salvage some souls while millions perished all around him with every step he took.

So this is all okay; it's familiar, even. John is used to chasing words that are twisted and lost with the breath of the wind, used to trying to forgive _because_ _it's all he could do and he could convince himself of._

There's that spot in his mind that keeps hold and tells him that maybe, this time, it'll be worth it. Maybe he's not grasping at straws; maybe Sherlock will be one of the only to be truthfully sincere and never break John again.

He so, so wants to believe the part of him that expresses this. He always does. He always convinces himself to go along with it like a dog, ever loyal and willing to give it a second go.

So here he is.

Similarly, Sherlock wants to believe that he can trust John, that John will accept him no matter what he does, as he already has. Sherlock wants to think that John won't abandon him, like Mycroft or Father had. Maybe John would be stronger than Mother. Maybe Sherlock wouldn't hurt John he way he had hurt Mother.

It was all people could take not to be repulsed by the monster he resembled, not to pull away when they realized how dangerous, how abnormal the 'freak' actually was. When his bones grew to be cold and strong as stone, when his papery skin stretched taut around his ever growing frame; When his hands grew to be claws so large that they could swipe away your head at the collarbone, leaving blood to flow down your body as a wolf satisfied himself with the ripping of flesh; When he became an animal and was consumed by fire that always touched the secret yearnings inside of him, to bite and kill and gorge himself on prey ever insufficient; When all this happened, it drove people away.

Sherlock was a freak.

His father had said it while he had punished him for it; Mycroft had said it while he had left Sherlock at the mercy of a world Sherlock wasn't ready for. Mycroft had said it as he had disregarded everything.

Sherlock had begun to realize it himself while he had tended to marks and bruises left on his skin from the sharp, deafening snap of the leather whip mounted in the study at Holmes Manor.

It had echoed in Mycroft's eyes when they were but children.

It had been said as his brother had ignored the screams and the dark violet patches that had peppered Sherlock's skin after each time their father had heard of his younger son's abnormalities.

It could be seen in the faces of almost everyone who had ever encountered him, and when he was younger, be read like a book in the turned heads that surrounded him in school. Sherlock didn't know what he did or why he had such an effect on people, but he decided to ignore it and disown society with its harsh, worthless bodies bustling about on dull and pointless things. Better not to get wrapped up in everything – he told himself that he didn't want to anyway. Father had hated him either way, had still given out 'punishments' and left his son to lick at stinging wounds like a helpless puppy whether he impacted the world in some way deemed improper.

Sherlock had come to believe that he deserved it all, that the pain was his reward for being such an anomaly. He shouldn't be this way; he shouldn't not fit in, like a piece from another puzzle than everyone else. Every snap of hard leather on his ivory skin screamed of the fact that he was a glitch, a disgraceful irregularity.

The only person who had never said it was Mother, and look where that had gotten her. A ripped, bleeding mound of flesh left to dry out on the concrete of their garden, as morning dew gathered on the roses she had tended to. Her eyes would have been glassy and unseeing if they had remained - if they had not been replaced with puckering gashes that sliced through a face that had once held such understated beauty. Her dress had been coated with her own dark cranberry cruor, and the sinew that had held together her dainty body had snapped as easily as you could cut string.

His mother had been broken like a china doll, and it scared him. It scared Sherlock how it hadn't seemed to have taken any effort, how a skull could be crushed in his hand following the instinct of a wild animal. As easily as if it were made of clay.

It scared him most of all how he didn't have any control, how his mind, usually so magnificently aware had lost any conscious form of thought other than to savagely rip and tear. He didn't know why he did these things in the Wolf-state, why everything that defined him as _human_ was turned off and replaced by animal urges. He was a machine, only destined to hurt and be hurt.

Sherlock wore the images of his mother's gory dismantlement like chains, tasted the rustic tart of her blood on his lips each month as the moon waxed.

He was a freak.

He was a freak and he would always hurt the people he cared about.

Sherlock had been told all of this before he had even become the monster, the Wolf to which he was joined internally with. He knew it was true and he resented himself. He can't even blame his father for hating him so, or for doing anything to him. Deep down, Sherlock believes that he deserved it, every blow and staggering loss inflicted upon his willowy body and his mental state. He gets a nervous bubbling in his stomach still, whenever he hears mention of his father, because he knows that his father would look disdainfully down on him now like he always had.

The only one who had ever made him forget it all was John.

He can't stay away from John, even though he knows he should. John will hurt him, or he will hurt John and it's all unavoidable. Deep inside of him, a monster rears its head at the presence of another soul, another body and Sherlock knows it's just a matter of time before the universe breaks again, and swallows up his only salvation.

_John._ The taste of the word on his tongue, the only thing that's kept him going for this long.

So now, Sherlock slips into a façade of optimism, for John's sake. He owes him that much, he owes John a million stars and never-ending euphoria for all that he puts up with, all that he's done for Sherlock. He gave Sherlock something _real_ to live for. Something that Sherlock knows will drag him into hell on Earth, burn his heart out for the last time.

Sherlock settles into this mask of bliss, irrational hopefulness and cheer and he knows that before long it won't matter. But he'll give these moments, small presents in even smaller packages to the man who needs the hope. The only thing Sherlock can't bear to do right now is discuss the situation; it will lower him into the depression that is threatening to consume him every moment he considers the possibilities of what will unavoidably happen.

So he lies on the table and tries to distract himself as he listens to John, uncomfortably aware of the fact that John is begging with him to have the situation outlined, with every detail precisely examined and explained. He knows John still has questions for him.

Instead of answering the silent queries, Sherlock asks about John's life. He demands to be aware of every little detail, everything that's happened since he left. Sherlock tries to absorb John through his words that, though none too eloquent show everything him.

A peculiar reaction is aroused in Sherlock when listening to John talk. He's never valued other's opinions, but the words that drip from the doctor's mouth enthrall him. Sherlock would listen to John talk forever, devour the way he pronounces his '_t'_s and examine the way his hands fiddle as he speaks. Sherlock chooses to distract himself with the beautiful sound of John speaking to him, after so long apart.

But John feels guilty as he obediently details everything that's happened to him in the past months. Why would it matter to Sherlock? Nothing had happened to him except getting kicked out of a couple bars and ruining a night out with Greg and Molly in yet another ploy to bring him back into society. (They had left him alone for a while afterwards.)Even though John had grieved over his best mate, Sherlock had been fighting for his life and struggling to outsmart some madman out to destroy him.

There are all kinds of grieving processes that people go through, and John had desired to curl up in a dark, damp hole with only the tangy scent of moss to keep him company for months. Sherlock has literally _been_ holed up underground, and he doesn't want to be. Sherlock got the worse deal, right?

John had wanted to burst into a million pieces, ride the wind like a spark from a campfire. Maybe one day he would settle onto the ground and burn out. Though he had felt like that part of it all had already happened. But Sherlock has been through so much as well.

John doesn't say anything about that, though.

Instead, he tells Sherlock of all the times he's brought out two mugs from the cupboards by accident, and he laughs about it now. The chuckles are half-hearted and Sherlock doesn't make a sound, so John lets them fade. He tentatively brings up the subject of Moriarty again.

"What about our present situation? What can we do to stop Moriarty?" John presses.

"…Later. Now, how's Mrs. Hudson?"

John decides to comply with the new subject, because of how Sherlock's eyes beg him to. Maybe Sherlock just needed some time.

The doctor knows for certain, however, that any conversation about Mrs. Hudson isn't going to raise any spirits. John doesn't think he can bear to tell Sherlock of the tears that had dripped down the frail skin of her face, which was stained with age more than ever now. John doesn't think he can stand to watch Sherlock lie silently as he learns how much time Mrs. Hudson's been spending with her sister, how she had locked the door to her room and hadn't come out for the first couple of days, or how much she had worried about John in Sherlock's absence.

But he doesn't have to; at that moment, John's phone starts to ring.

He knows it's Greg right away, because it's Greg's _specific_ ringtone that resonates out in the now silent room, bouncing off stone walls and coming out magnified and even more out of place that it would usually be.

The ringtone itself is actually an audio piece that was recorded on John's mobile; he and Greg had gone out for one pint too many one night, at a bar with a most individual choice in background music for their customers. At the point John had started recording, they were letting the feeling of blissful euphoria that all the drinks had brought on wash over them and they were singing along to the bar's music.

Their voices are loud, boisterous and scraggly – and stained with alcohol; the very sound of them dripped of it.

A large amount of static background accompanies Greg's recognizable voice churning out, "_Oh, please, say to me, You'll let me be your man, and please, say to me, You'll let me hold your hand, Now let me hold your hand…_" while John himself sings off-key and stuttering at the top of his lungs.  
It makes John happy, hearing their voices. He had particularly enjoyed showing the audio to the officers at Scotland Yard, while Greg went red and told him that he actually kind of liked his job, and he'd be happy not to get fired for having inappropriate behavior for a Detective Inspector, thanks.

John looks vaguely embarrassed at Sherlock hearing it, however; Sherlock wasn't really supposed to know what Greg and John did when they went out for drinks.

Sure enough, a smirk is curling Sherlock's lip as he sits up to look amusedly at John.

John tries to ignore that. "How long have I been here?"

"Roughly fifteen hours," Sherlock replies matter-of-factly, still smiling.

"Shit. I… I should get that." John starts to fumble in his pockets.

"_I can't hide! I can't hide! I can't hide!_"

Accompanying the new verse is the sound of something heavy falling from roughly three feet off the ground, and John's voice is mysteriously absent from Greg's obnoxious singing.

John ignores Sherlock's ever-widening grin. He holds his phone in his hand, but doesn't answer it before he asks one other thing.

"Has anyone else called me?" He says suspiciously.

"Shouldn't you be getting that? The singing is extremely awful, I would appreciate it if you could quiet it before my eardrums burst from sheer displeasure." Sherlock dances around the question.

"Yeah, hullo?" John answers his phone distractedly, focusing on shooting a dirty look at the other man in the room.

"John! Where the hell have you been? Where the hell are you?" Greg's voice blares out from the phone. John thinks that air might actually be gusting out from it like in the cartoons, Greg is talking so harshly.

Luckily, the man doesn't wait for a response from John; that's good, because John doesn't know how he could have replied. _Oh, Sherlock's just come back from the dead. And he's also a supernatural being able to summon magic at will! And did I forget to mention that Moriarty's one too, and they're both out to kill each other?_ _Totally normal here!_  
"Everyone's been fucking worried. What the hell did you think you were doing? Sarah's been trying to contact you all damn morning, your landlady said you haven't been home all night, nobody's seen you since you hit Anderson-"

Sherlock, who had been listening in (obviously,) looks delighted at the mention of the forensics employee.

"You did something to Anderson?" he whispers excitedly. He would have liked to have seen that.

"He insulted you," says John, holding his phone away from his face so Greg won't hear.

Sherlock's face stills; he's still smiling, but it's a different type of smile now. Underneath the amusement, he looks uncomfortably grateful.

John can count the times Sherlock has been grateful on one hand, just like he can count the times Sherlock has been truthfully sorry on the other. But right now, Sherlock's face screams "Thank you," because beating up Anderson for Sherlock is like giving anyone else a plate of chocolates.

And John wants to hug him, for the ridiculousness of this man. This wonderful, brilliant man who looks at John like he's a god.

Instead, John focuses back on the phone. He cuts Greg off from whatever he was ranting on about; John hadn't exactly been listening.

"I'm sorry – I had to get away." John says truthfully. For some reason, he doesn't think it would help his situation to say that Sherlock was here, or explain anything else he's been told. Disregarding the fact that he would be deemed mental for detailing the existence of '_Lycanthropes'_, everyone would give him pitiful, disappointed looks for imagining his friend alive again.

"Well, yeah, I don't blame you – he was being a right bastard. But shit, couldn't you answer your mobile? I was about ready to call you in as a missing person!"

"I was a bit…busy," John responds timidly.

"Look, I don't care. I just – ah, God. Are you alright? Fuck. I'm sorry," Greg says.

"No, it's not your fault," assures John. Greg didn't _make_ him go to the party, didn't make Anderson say all those things. Greg wasn't the problem here – he was only trying to help, like he always had. Greg had tried to pull John away from his feelings all along, had always been the best he could be in the situation. John feels sorry for him; he doesn't deserve such a lacking life. Greg deserves someone to love him like the big teddy bear he is. He had actually said this many times, but Greg still loved his wife. He was stuck in a relationship where he very literally got nothing but couldn't leave.

John could relate. It's how he's felt most his life.

Sherlock has a semi-guilty look on his face, cat-like eyes shining in the dark from his perch on the table. Why did they even bother buying furniture?

Greg is still convinced that it's his fault.

"I dragged you in there. I know you didn't want to go, but you just… need to do _something_. You sit around all day, and you think we don't notice but you're just going through the motions. You can't be like this any longer."

John cuts him off again.

"I think I can actually move on now, Greg," he says slowly, "I've thought about it, and I've decided to stop waiting around. If he was going to come back, he would have done it already," John looks at Sherlock intensely, and Sherlock stares back unblinkingly. An uncertain expression winds its way onto his face. His lip curls while his brow furrows under the dark, curly locks that cover his forehead.

Greg continues talking, unaware of the silent exchange.

"Well, good - that's good. I'm glad you feel that way," Greg says, a bit flustered.

"I'm glad you're ready to get back on your feet again. Everybody's been so worried for you, all the damn time. I know you couldn't think of anything but _him_, but… we've _all_ missed him. I think you know that now, right?"

John gives Sherlock a smile, tilting his head up to look at the man. His eyes crinkle at the corners and his face is glowing in a tired, old way. John looks so much older than he should, experience and hardship swirling in his dark eyes.

Sherlock smiles back and it's a lovely thing. He looks so awfully lost, chains keeping him from flying up like a bird, rising from the ashes of so many hard and lonely years. The look of him, the sadness in his smile even now, and John wants to stand in front of him and deflect the demons that are coming to posses them both. He wants to bury his head in soft curls, lose his smile in the woodsy, cinnamon scent of Sherlock Holmes. John wants to see that smile at peace with everything, wants to see Sherlock dream and lose his guarded expression and he wants to wake up to that smile every morning. John wants to snuggle up in a plushy, quilted comforter and hug Sherlock tight against him and promise that nothing will ever happen to him.

He wants to hold Sherlock's thin body in the warmth of his own strong build and whisper in his ear and never have to let go.

There are sparks flying between them, alighting on eyelashes and getting lost in locks of hair. It's like a string keeping both of them there in the moment.

It's only broken when Greg speaks up again. "You should really call Sarah and Mrs. Hudson, John. We've all been worried."

John reluctantly lowers his head back to his cell phone.

"They don't have to be."

Greg sighs. "They are. Should I just tell them that you're alright, that you'll be back at the flat in an hour? Give you time to get back from… wherever you are."

"Yes," John relents. "Do that. I have to go."

"Okay," Greg says noncommittally, but before he can say anything else John is stuffing his mobile roughly back into his pocket.

Sherlock wonders how John had fared without him. Greg was treating him like a lost child, and Sherlock wonders if that was how it had been. He hates children, and doesn't care much for pathetic people who break over a loss – but the thought of John like that sends shivers and sparks of hatred up his spine. John was supposed to be strong, unbreakable.

John looks at Sherlock, calculating something.

"Sherlock…" he says regretfully, "I should… go."

"Yes," Sherlock breathes.

He knows he needs John here with him but he can't be a hindrance. He can take care of himself. He doesn't need John. He tells himself it's actually good John's leaving. It doesn't help anyone and now maybe John won't get hurt -

"Do you need anything?" John says awkwardly, searching the room with his eyes.

And Sherlock realizes that John intends to _come back_. This man is going to _come back _after everything. He hadn't let himself think that before, lest John see a chance to leave and take it. Because why would anyone want to stay here with _him_? Nobody ever has before. He's not worth it.

But John wasn't going to leave – Sherlock's mind is dancing and twirling and it's too good to be true.

"Hold on - do you even have any supplies here? Do you have any _food_?" John reverts back to his role of strictly-concerned-doctor, a disapproving expression clouding his face.

"Yes," Sherlock lies. "But not more than enough for a couple more days. I would appreciate some bandages as well." He was fine, really. He'd dig up some water somewhere and he wasn't hungry. But Sherlock has learned that it's better to feed John's caretaker tendencies before they get out of hand. And he can't lose John by asking for something. It was already so much that John was planning to return. He was actually going to. Sherlock hadn't thought that he would actually care enough.

"Okay… I guess I'll, um, find my way back and be here again in a couple of hours…"

"Nonsense. You need sleep, and I don't have another bed here. Come next morning if you so desire, but no earlier." Sherlock says this strictly, no room for negotiation. John deserves to sleep in a comfortable bed. John deserves to be anywhere other than here, dealing with all of this.

"Okay," John says, only because his back is aching so much already. But he's going to make a deal anyway.

"If you promise to talk about everything tomorrow. _Everything_, Sherlock. I want to know how we can beat Moriarty, because I know you already have ideas. I want to know how much time we have."

John is more perceptive than Sherlock had thought. All he can do is nod his head because his mind is swimming in thoughts. _He knows all about the risks and he's still here_. _He's going to come back and talk to you about what 'we' are going to do_. _He's going to help you_. _He doesn't think you're less of a human being because of everything_.

It's almost too much.

John is looking at him worriedly and Sherlock knows that he's acting strangely and he needs to get a grip on himself.

"John," he says, "I know you don't know how to get out of here, or even where we are."

John gets an indignant look on his face, even though he knows it's true.

"So," Sherlock continues, "You're going to need to call Mycroft to get you. Just tell him that I said he would bring you. Go about one hundred meters away from the bunker though, if you please. I can't afford anyone sensing suspicious activity right next to where I am trying to hide."

John should be baffled, but he's not. Apparently something had happened between Sherlock and his (hated) older brother to have Sherlock rely on him like this.

"How will I get back?"

"Same way," Sherlock says monotonously.

"Sherlock… why is Mycroft helping you like this?"

Sherlock's face flickers from bored to horribly twisted in pain and fear. He looks like a scared animal and John thinks his heart might have broken in the brief second that that expression had made it onto Sherlock's face. What could bring such deep, scarring pain? What could break Sherlock like that? John suddenly thinks that there is more to this man than it seems. He's never talked with Sherlock about his past but maybe that was why the detective was so alone.

"I'm calling up old favors. And I'd say he owes me for explaining my entire life story to Jim, wouldn't you?"

John can tell it's so much more than that but he doesn't push. If it's something Sherlock wants to talk about it, it'll come out. If it's something that brings Sherlock pain then the man will want to forget about it.

"I can stay if you want me to," says John, rethinking.

"No." Sherlock almost looks angry as he says it.

"Okay. I'll see you tomorrow, yeah? We'll figure this out." John promises.

Sherlock nods.

Soon John is out the door with a 'take care' and a 'see you soon'. Sherlock slumps back onto the cot that John has only just vacated, burying his head in his hands.

xOxOxOxOxOx

John clambers out the door and into the harsh sunlight, holding his hand up to cover his eyes. He hikes a ways away from the 'bunker', as promised, and pulls out his phone.

His fingers scroll through the dreadfully short list of names, finding Mycroft's contact under '**That Bastard**'. Okay, it was kind of childish but Mycroft had kidnapped him and told a criminal mastermind all about his own brother.

Mycroft picks up on the first ring.

"You no doubt need transportation. Give me about five minutes, Doctor Watson. I'll see you in the helicopter."

He doesn't even wait for John's spluttered response before hanging up, leaving John to dread seeing him once again.

* * *

**A/N: I kind of have a headcanon that Sherlock was abused by his father as a young adult, explaining the misgivings he has for society most of the time. He actually has most of the attributes that physically and mentally damaged victims of abuse have. Similarly to this, Sherlock doesn't like Mycroft because he can't ever forgive him for never doing anything to help. Mycroft has obviously tried to repair the damage but he is forever caught and tagged as someone who wasn't there when Sherlock desperately needed him.**

**I also have the headcanon that John's dad was killed (drunk-related incident) and that his mother turned to alcohol afterwards. **

**So I imagine pretty dark universes, I guess.**

**Next Update: unsure. I have no idea when I'll be able to write again, so you can expect something anytime before or on next Sunday.**


	9. Reasons

**A/N: Skiing all weekend! So that's why this came at like midnight (I couldn't sleep anyway so it all works out.) I saw some guy on the lift with a gigantic "SHERLOCK" sticker on his board and I think that I now believe in love at first sight.**

**I'll probably re-edit some tomorrow but I thought I'd get this up here…**

**x**

**As of my edits: yes, friends, I added lots more!**

* * *

Reasons

John waits for a little over four minutes (yes, he had been counting; anything to catch _Mycroft_ late) before he spots an expensive-looking helicopter making its way toward the cluster of trees where he sits. The forest green, ruddy and chocolate color scheme is disrupted with silvery metal so shiny it could be brand-new and John hears the birds stop their late afternoon songs as the whoosh of air nearly knocks him over on his arse.

Mycroft was certainly as dramatic as his brother tried to be, whether it was a conscious effort on his part or not. Sherlock may have the striking personality and the little twirls in his theatrical coat, but the other Holmes has the sleek military vehicles and the upmarket suits.

John rolls his eyes at the shiny metal stairs that unfold from the underbelly of the vehicle, and hobbles up the steps while he tries to find a little, seemingly insignificant rock among the trees. It's impossible, and John sighs as he continues to climb. At least Sherlock knows how to hide. He's in a different clearing that the one Sherlock was marking as his territory, and grassy hills frame woodlands on all sides. The tall spurts of the pasture blow lazily in a faint wind and this could possibly be the best weather John has seen in years.

Figures that he's about ready to pass out. He'd never been particularly lucky.

The pleasant breeze that had been sifting through his short, sandy hair is abruptly cut off as he steps into the metal contraption. The air is stuffy and carries a faint peppermint scent, and it is cold as ice inside.

Everything is lavish red velvet and cushy chairs, questionable dials littering the walls and stale light coming from lamps along the ceiling. _Maybe Mycroft is a vampire_, John thinks, because he apparently is allergic to any natural light whatsoever. It explains the peculiar affixation with umbrellas, at least; though vampires are supposed to be thin, aren't they?

The man himself is seated comfortably in a high-backed chair near the wall, and John finds himself a seat directly across from him. He crosses his legs at the ankles and waits, as the man peers at him over fingertips that are joined in exactly the same way as his brother was fond of putting them.

Mycroft looks well, if a bit thicker around the middle than John remembers. It's in stark contrast to the skeletal, translucent appearance of Sherlock, though Mycroft is obviously better off at the moment. John can't help but wonder if there is some sort of cosmic system going on here; that for every fraction of a stone Mycroft gains, Sherlock is destined to lose twice that. If that was the case, they should really balance out the scale for both their sakes.

John also wonders why Mycroft felt it was necessary to escort him out in person. The two Holmes brothers were apparently "calling up old favors" but _those_ certainly didn't stretch this far. Did they? Then again, John wouldn't really know; he and Harry weren't exactly close enough for that sort of thing anymore. Not that Sherlock and Mycroft were close at all. Quite the contrary, and that much was rather obvious.

Mycroft doesn't torture John with anything other than his calculating stare for a full two minutes and forty-eight seconds (again, John had been counting; but this time to see if there would be a new record keeper for creepy, brooding silence.) When he finally speaks, it's in his usual light and airy tone – the one that everyone with more than a couple of brain cells knows is an act.

"You are aware of our present situation, Doctor Watson, are you not?"

John gives a stiff nod of consent.

"More or less, I suppose," Mycroft comments, "but all in good time, mmh? And you think you can help my _dear_ brother?"

John scoffs.

"More than you can."

"Sherlock continues to reject my offers of assistance…"

"Probably because you and your government mates would strap him to a table and dissect him the first chance you got," John answers.

Mycroft looks amused, a smile curling his lip as he speaks.

"We have far more willing and agreeable people for that."

John is momentarily thrown off-track.

"You – our government knows about werewo- lycanthropes?"

"And the Americans, and the Russians, everybody really," Mycroft muses. "Did you know, the Japanese have actually started hunting them? For coats and even for their unique meat. Which, incidentally, is rather stringy; wouldn't recommend it. It was a nasty feud, that… no one was very pleased…"

John doesn't know whether or not to believe him. And also doesn't know whether to recoil at the mention of people dining on werewolves or to be intrigued by the fact that, apparently, they were a popular topic among government workers. He decides to file away the information instead, for later use or to ponder over at some other time.

John shakes his head to clear it. He thinks back to the subject on hand: a meddling bastard with an umbrella and a fondness toward sweets.

"Yes, okay," he says politely, "But let me ask you something, Mycroft; why do you hound Sherlock like this, when you know he will _never_ accept your help?"

John honestly wants to know why he's being escorted home in a posh helicopter.

"My younger brother is a self-destructive, reckless man with no proper job whatsoever, many common enemies and the ability to turn into a, for lack of a better word, _magical_ _creature_. He can hardly take care of himself," Mycroft cocks his head to the side a bit, in a knowing expression. "and that leaves me to do it for him."

"You don't do a very good job," John comments.

"I do what I can."

"Like tell his entire life story to a criminal mastermind who is very publicly out to kill him?" Now John is just plain amused. Angry; and amused.

"I had hardly expected Jim Moriarty to be able to make any use of the information."

Mycroft might be slightly uncomfortable now; though it's always very hard to tell with him.

"Yeah? How'd that work out for you?" John is silent after this query. Of course, it wasn't exactly a query as much as a biting remark.

Mycroft watches mutely for another couple of minutes. John taps his foot anxiously, crossing his fingers that this dreadful trip will be over soon. All he wants to do is flop down onto his downy mattress and go to sleep, after making himself a cuppa and changing out of these dreadfully dirty clothes. Of course, he still has to call Sarah (she worries too much – it's not like they're dating anymore) and check in on Mrs. Hudson (poor thing, he had probably put her in a right state when he hadn't come home). John almost sighs aloud, almost covers his face in his hand because he really doesn't want to deal with it all.

Mycroft breaks the silence. John wishes he hadn't.

"You know, I am still prepared to offer a large compensation for-"

John cuts him off.

"Every time, every _fucking_ time, Mycroft. Why do you expect my answer to be any different?"

The doctor had been quite baffled the first time, annoyed by the third and had unceremoniously stormed out of the room the fourth time that Mycroft had tried to bribe him into spying on his own flat mate. Goodness knows they could do with the money (hailing cabs all over London wasn't exactly inexpensive) but it was the mere gesture that usually made John turn the offer down. What made anyone believe that people could be bought out like that?

The truth, of course, was that Mycroft didn't like the idea that sentiment could be worth more than he could offer. He had seen what sentiment could do and he still has to desire to ignore it completely; maybe then it wouldn't hurt him. John doesn't know this. He just thinks Mycroft doesn't understand.

In reality, he understands all too well.

Mycroft sighs, looking down at his umbrella as he spins it almost subconsciously between his fingers. His appearance looks weathered and tired; John almost feels sorry for the man. He certainly does look exhausted, and more so than the typical uni student working two jobs in-between classes; and that's saying something. John remembers his days at college and almost shivers whenever he does – medical school wasn't particularly fun. The older Holmes brother looks worse than he had during those hard years in his 20s.

The sight of the sleek wooden handle of the umbrella must offer Mycroft some comfort, because he looks up not long after the passing of a minute.

"What I really ask you to do is leave him. Let Sherlock figure this out on his own. Your presence will put him in more danger than he is already in, and I want him to be able to walk away from this."

"How could_ I_ be a danger to Sherlock?"

Mycroft raises his eyebrows.

"He obviously cares a lot for you, and you for him. More, I think, if you both would let yourselves. But that's not my place, hmm?" John is spluttering in his seat. "Sherlock would die saving you, though, and that would be quite a waste of all the resources I have put into keeping him alive."

John is actually kind of touched at this. He doesn't know what to think actually. But this is all going into the small drawer he keeps in the deepest corner of his head so he doesn't over think and go red in the face and maybe even explode before afternoon tea. John closes the Drawer of Iffy Information, swallows, and goes back to the point that Mycroft is asking him to leave his best friend only hours after discovering his continued existence.

Mycroft seems to take John's silence as an answer rather than a small internal crisis.

"Yes. I had guessed you wouldn't leave, even if it was in Sherlock's best interests."

"No," says John, regaining his voice.

There is a very pregnant pause following this, in which Mycroft holds John's determined gaze with one of his own. He slowly allows himself an accepting smile.

"I trust you will grasp the gravity of the situation soon enough. Watch your step – I don't want you to drag Sherlock down with you if or when you fall," the older, suited man purses his lips.

"As I've said, I worry about him. Constantly."

He pulls a sleek black phone out of his pocket, fingers scrolling through what appears to be a fair amount of messages. Mycroft must not be very happy with what he sees, because his brow furrows and mouth pulls down into a grimace. He slips the phone into the pocket of his expensive suit and twirls his umbrella once again, giving the impression of a conductor waiting for his orchestra.

"_Anthea_," Mycroft gives a knowing smile as he says the name, "will be at Baker Street to pick you up and bring you back to my dear brother at ten tomorrow morning. Do be ready."

Mycroft gets up from his chair and swishes past John with an air of finality, silently opening the door of the helicopter. He steps down onto what John infers is solid ground; either that, or the doctor had just witnessed a suicide.

He's left to wonder how long it will be until he can sleep and how the bloody hell he'll know when to get off.

xOxOxOxOxOx

After disembarking the helicopter, Mycroft makes his way to his office. He shows his identification to the heavy-set security guard at the iron gates and talks to Reight about new regulations on the shipping of oil and the awful film coming out, _Blood of Agents_ (unbeknownst to the public, based on a true story.) He swipes his card in the automatic, metal and bullet-proof glass doors and makes his way up the elevator.

Mycroft enters his office and peels off his jacket, hanging it on the claw-footed coat rack next to the beige sofa. He pops a peppermint humbug into his mouth, greedy fingers reaching into the crystal dish on the side table before closing the lid and striding to his desk. He sits himself primly into another of his preferably high-backed, squishy leather chairs and shuffles the papers that have found their way onto his desk since the morning.

He checks up on the (confidential) news on his government issued, technologically advanced cellphone.

After an hour or so of annoying emails and an increasingly depleted supply of peppermint humbugs, Mycroft Holmes calls Anthea to call for the helicopter again.

xOxOxOxOxOx

Sherlock is practically going mad inside his own head when Mycroft barges into the room, turning up his nose at the mess.

Sherlock lifts his head up to glare at his brother. He had made it quite clear that visits were unwelcome, had he not? For Mycroft to come striding in here as if he owned the place… well, technically, he did, but Sherlock was the one inhabiting it at the moment. He has the feeling that nobody else is very keen on doing so.

"You really can't take care of any cleaning, can you?" says Mycroft distastefully.

Sherlock gives him a look. "What do you want."

Mycroft has learned by now the correct way to deal with his brother. Straight-forward with no pauses for a companionable silence, cutting straight to the chase so they can get straight to arguing about it.

"I think you should rethink your involvement of Doctor Watson in the matters concerning your… condition."

"Give me a reason."

"I think we both know you would give up your own life (again) to save him, and I think we both know that that would leave Moriarty with no game plan and an unsatisfied thirst for entertainment. Not only would you lose your life but everyone else would be stuck with your enemy."

Mycroft is acting distant and unforgiving, like stone; because he has to be.

Sherlock just laughs. "What life? I barely have anything left, not unless I find a way around everything. Which I have spent the better part of two months doing," he says bitterly.

"To no avail," agrees Mycroft.

"I think we both like Doctor Watson, Sherlock. It'd be a shame to lose him."

Sherlock turns a cold gaze towards his brother.

"In what way are you describing John will be lost?"

Mycroft doesn't answer.

_This is shit_, Sherlock thinks. Maybe he really is a monster. Is he putting John in all this danger? John didn't seem perturbed but that's _John_…

There are a few minutes of calculating silence as Sherlock's mind frantically works to think about everything.

"You should just consider. You have a plan, and I do not want you to endanger that or the one person in London you haven't yet managed to drive away," Mycroft drawls.

Sherlock laughs again, a dry and unforgiving chuckle. "Drive away, is it? Like I 'drove away' _mother_, I suppose? 'I've always done things alone, this time shouldn't be any different'?"

"That's not what I said. That's ridiculous."

"You didn't need to," he says. "Get out."

"Sherlock, I have your best interests-"

"I _will_ have John if I want to! I don't need your concern and if you try and take him from me – the _only_ person who could possibly make this easier –" Sherlock lets the threat loom menacingly above them both.

_I need him_, Sherlock decides. It's selfish and half his brain is shouting curses at him tearing itself apart, but he needs _someone_ in this darkness. Not Mycroft. Not any other lycos, either. He's putting John is so much danger, and there's no telling where this will leave them both. But fuck it, he deserves this. He deserves someone to be there for him as he slowly slips into this bright, multi-colored swirl of madness. Mycroft was making him doubt this and it's all the worse because Sherlock knows no one deserves it. He's trying to forget but Mycroft is _reminding him of all the danger_.

The detective's hair is standing on end now, his mysterious eyes both lined and frantic. He looks tired and manically awake at the same time, and he's not himself.

Mycroft keeps his face neutral, like a statue in a museum; a casual observer. He had adopted the expression as a child, learning to feign ignorance because he hadn't been strong enough to do anything else.

And he regrets it every day.

Mycroft just continues to look at his brother, apologies lingering on his pale lips.

"I SAID GET OUT!" Sherlock roars, springing to his feet with his back hunched protectively. If you squint, you can see a trace of fear in his bloodshot eyes.

"I am only trying to help you," Mycroft states, making no move towards the door.

"You have no right!" Sherlock practically spits. This is his fight, and his alone. Except John, because he can't stand to do it entirely by his lonesome. Never could, even when everyone had deserted him.

"If you hurt him, you will tear yourself apart and it-"

Sherlock screams; a long, guttural sound that comes from the back of his throat and tears its way through every molecule in the room. He tilts his head up towards the bare ceiling, eyes squinting in an expression of pain. His face screws up in the agony and the drawn-out, tortured scream falling from his lips turns into an eerily howl-like sound.

Sherlock falls to his knees, going quiet with his mouth still open in silent anguish; he can't scream now, his vocal chords are being ripped apart and put back together again. They will mend and then animalistic howls will escape his lips; lips that will soon be slick with blood. He scrunches himself into a tiny ball on the cold floor, hands grappling at the smooth surface as they start to morph into long, sharp claws.

Mycroft watches from the sidelines, and he can't withhold the amazement that shows on his face.

"It's progressing," he murmurs.

Sherlock's eyes roll back into his head, and he arches his silvery back while writhes in sheer, blinding pain. The bumps of his spine pop up one by one, ripping the shirt he wears and stretching his lucent skin to cover the steely bone. All of the veins in his body light up as his blood glows an unknown color with the magic that runs through it. They give off a blurred glow, as it being seen from under the far depths of the ocean.

The setting sun outside has been slowly taking away light from the room, which makes the radiance even more noticeable and bright.

All of Sherlock's nerve endings are suddenly blazing with unbearable pain, worse than they had been just seconds ago, and he gives a tormented howl with his new vocal chords. His body is wracked with twitches and feral screams as the rest of him starts to transform; limbs growing longer and chest expanding, heart beating as loud as a drum without one's rhythmic pace. His mouth lengthens into a snout that promptly curls into a snarl. Hair sprouts from every inch of his skin, as perfectly, glaringly silver as the moon that is absent from the sky.

Mycroft has the sense, then, to fling open the metal door, giving the Wolf a passage to the outside.

The thick fur that covers its body obscures the haunting lights of its glowing veins.

The Wolf's form is still and splayed out on the floor for a fraction of a second before the beast lifts his head to shriek once more; with a now fully-matured voice box. The sound echoes off the walls and is so consuming that you can almost _see_ it in the air. The Wolf turns bulbous eyes to the steadily darkening woods outside when it finally looks round, and pounces with lightning speed out the threshold of the door. Bats fly lazily around shadowed trees that swallow up the monster, masking it in the twilight. Even after it is gone, somehow, the wails that had escaped its suffering lips remain fused with the almost empty room.

Mycroft hears the yowls of woodland animals not moments later, with sweat clinging to his brow as he stands, frozen, in the spot his baby brother had laid only minutes before.

It was getting worse, as Sherlock had feared.

xOxOxOxOxOx

Sherlock wakes up to a chilly breeze blowing its icy breath across his naked body, and a hand on his shoulder. A familiar, rough voice graces his ear.

* * *

**A/N: Definitely adding & editing more later. Right now, I'm tired.**

**So I have exam thingies for the next two weeks. This either means hiatus or very frequent updates. Just stay tuned.**

**x**

**As of my new edits: I imagined Sherlock's transformation to be a lot like George's transformation into a werewolf in **_**Being Human**_** (U. K.) [If you haven't ever watched that show, I STRONGLY recommend it. Something to make you want to watch it even more: Henry Knight from the Hounds of Baskerville plays George. And he's bloody amazing.]**

**I almost killed Mycroft, then and there, because I am a cruel person and wanted Sherlock to feel even more pain. But I didn't; maybe later. *Mwha hahahahaha***


	10. Needles

**A/N: I got a new computer. SO YAY. I'm back! Would've been up earlier if I was less lazy.**

* * *

Needles

Sherlock wakes up to a chilly breeze blowing its icy breath across his naked body, and a hand on his shoulder. A familiar, rough voice graces his ear.

"I've been replaced, S'lock?" it pouts merrily.

Sherlock's eyes snap open as he takes in a shaky gasp of air, breathing in the scent of the damp moss that his head is resting on. Everything aches, and it feels like every single nerve ending in his right leg is on fire - he thinks briefly that it's probably broken. But he can't focus on the pain right now, can't even look, because the moist breath tickling his neck and the heavy hand resting on his shoulder are both of much greater concern.

_And he knows that voice._

Despite the pain, the detective jumps, unsteadily, to his feet. Twigs and crumpled leaves tumble out of his thick locks, where they had made themselves at home, as he backs away from the large man who had been leaning over him.

He bumps into a thick trunk that scratches against his bare shoulder blades, and his knees start to buckle. Sherlock throws up one long arm to grapple for a branch to hold up his failing body, and somehow manages to stop himself from falling onto the ground below, which is still wet with the morning's dew. He winces and his chest gradually rises and falls with struggling breaths; some from pain, some from shock.

The thing about Sherlock Holmes is that he doesn't get surprised. He calculates almost everything before it happens, and if something unexpected occurs, he's ready for it.

Right now, he's as shocked as he was on his first full moon.

The other man watches Sherlock from his squatted position on the forest floor, grinning and laughing softly. The wind tinkles gaily with him, blowing the longish hair of both men and stirring up the dead flowers and animals that cover the ground.

He slowly rises, stepping forwards with dirty boots the color of coal.

He wears tight, mud-colored pants that are held up with a belt that carries numerous pockets and a silvery gun. A simple white t-shirt allows his muscular chest to be seen quite clearly, and it's topped with a dusty leather jacket and yet another weapon, which is strapped across the man's torso. He has longish, scraggly brown hair, a lengthy, slightly hooked nose and striking copper eyes that seem to glow with the sparse rays of sun filtering down.

He smiles wickedly.

"Mmhh, you look just as good as ever. I could just," he laughs, "eat you up."

He glances below Sherlock's abdomen for a second, suggestively raising his eyebrows.

Sherlock twitches but doesn't move, knuckles turning white as he tries to stay up. His leg is obviously much more than broken.

He glances down, and sees a pearly white patch of bone peaking out from under his kneecap. Red strands of muscle and vein halfheartedly grip the fixture and blood streams down his calf, pooling at his feet. His leg is almost entirely drained already. It's torn and gnarled, and Sherlock examines it grimly.

"Oh, _that. _I think we've both had worse, haven't we? You should be fine in about two minutes, filthy fucking Lyco you are," the other man muses.

"What," Sherlock breathes, "do you want? Why are you here? How are you...," he trails off.

The other man grins arrogantly. "You really think you're that hard to find? Dammit, Sherly, how have you even lasted this long out on your own?"

Sherlock grimaces, biting his lip. He's about to respond when he feels himself start to heal. If you could call something that causes this much bodily torture "healing".

There's nothing building up to it, he's just suddenly hit with a blinding pain that turns his vision white and has the power of what feels like a locomotive behind it. He immediately crumples to the ground like a puppet that's had it's strings severed, and he has no control over his body as it spasms and twitches while his wound starts to repair itself. His right leg straitens out and goes rigid as it is flooded with light, and Sherlock's screams accompany the show.

The other man leans against a tall oak, his face impassive and almost bored.

"See, I don't have to bother with this _shit. _It's so much better, you wouldn't believe!" he exclaims, throwing his arms out. "Well, you don't, actually," he ads in retrospect.

Roughly two minutes of incomprehensible burning slowly pass. Sherlock cringes and gasps until, at last, the pain leaves him and his body is his own again. He lies on the cool forest floor while chilled sweat runs down his body.

"Get _up_," the other man calls impatiently, glancing over at Sherlock's frail form as he dully picks at his dirty fingernails.

Sherlock pulls himself off of the ground and turns to face him, dusted in soil and looking positively furious.

"What do you want, _Victor_? Why don't you just up and take me to your employer? I'm _dying _to meet him again - quite literally." He starts trying to brush himself off.

"You'd leave your poor John, then?"

Sherlock stops dead, straightening up to look at Victor with piercing, forceful eyes. "How do you know about John?"

The man is amused, lips quirking up into a sly smile. "Shape-shifting, remember?" he says, tapping his head with a gloved finger.

Sherlock looks disconcerted. He goes completely still, face becoming a blank slate. The wind continues to whistle around in the trees, but somehow seems to leave him untouched, a statue of pale marble that resembles the Greek figures of old. His mouth is open, words that were never uttered ready to slide off of his tongue. To someone who knows him well, Sherlock Holmes could be recognized as being frightened.

But really, he's much more than that. He's downright terrified. He'd thought he was safe, at least for the moment. Months of running, hiding, and sneaking around in the dark - for this? How long had Victor been watching him? What had he seen? And John - oh, _John, _now he was wrapped up in it all... how long would it take? Did he have long enough to send a warning, get Mycroft to send for someone -

"Oi! Still here, darling," says Victor with his prissy grin.

Sherlock snaps out of his reverie to once more become the angry, acrimonious creature he had turned into the night before. Deep down, he knows that it's a sign he's becoming more unstable, more at risk of hurting someone else -

But all of the emotion he's bottled up comes spewing out at the arrogant, hateful man in front of him.

"Why won't you tell me what's going on?" he shouts, face twisted.

Victor is unperturbed. "All in the game, sweetheart."

"Then why are you here?" he screams, eyes wild.

"Well," Victor seems to lose some of his self-importance, "I'm not actually here on orders. I thought I'd give you one last chance. The boss will kill me, but I just want to let you know that you're losing. Pretty fucking badly."

Sherlock is beyond shouting now. He struggles for a moment, face jumping from different expressions of fury. He looks, quite simply, insane.

Somehow, he pushes the beast that was clawing at his insides back down.

"I'm going to ask you once more: what do you want?" His voice is dangerously low, almost a growl.

"Can't you see how much better it would be if you were one of _us? _Don't you want power, freedom to whatever you - "

"No, I don't! I know what it does to people, I know what it did to you - I don't want that. I just want to be left alone!"

Victor narrows his eyes. "You know that will never happen."

"Then I'll fight for it," Sherlock says viciously, stepping forwards. "It's all I have! This life has cost me so much. What the war did to us -"

"It made us better!" interrupts Victor. "We're stronger than ever before! We can finally have our reign! A better world, where Eklektoses don't have to hide!"

"You are corrupt," Sherlock says disgustedly.

"When we both were just filthy little Lycos, we could never have imagined this! Dammit, nobody ever could, until we discovered the power we had, the power you could have - "

"I don't want it!" Sherlock shouts.

"We'll see," says Victor softly, looking at the almost skeletal, angry man before him with eyes that have become cold.

"Maybe your precious John will, too."

Then the man changes; one second he's standing there with a devilish grin and a heavy stance, the next he seems to be gone entirely. A small, sickly creature flies away from the spot he had stood.

"Don't touch him!" Sherlock yells.

There's a faint cackling that seems to be riding on the wind.

xOxOxOxOxOx

John stomps over to the pantry, and after a moments hesitation, pushes all of its contents into a large bag with long sweeps of his sweater-clad arms.

"Fine my arse," he mutters to himself as he does so.

For the next hour, he runs around the flat gathering up various supplies and amenities. While he's at it he grabs Sherlock a couple pairs of pants, socks, t-shirts and his (rather soft) blue scarf. Funnily enough, Sherlock's equipment was the only thing of his that was actually gone from Baker Street - and they had never really given it away anyway. All of his posters, odd nick-knacks and every miscellaneous item he'd ever collected for some purpose or another was still present in the flat, like their owner had never left.

Apparently he hadn't, but that was beside the point.

Mycroft had come by on one rainy afternoon. John had been skulking by the window, watching clear drips of rain slide down the foggy glass when the older Holmes had let himself in.

He had stood watching John for a moment, then sighed; there was nothing to say, really. Besides, John didn't have anything to say either. Mycroft had then asked for the violin ("family heirloom"), and the skull ("sentiment...") and if John had thought that wanting your dead brother's pet skull was odd, he hadn't voiced his opinion. Finally, Mycroft had asked for Sherlock's coat. He wouldn't say why, which, though it was per the norm for Mycroft Holmes to prance around without needing to explain himself, had struck John as just a bit odd.

And he had said no. He didn't know why; maybe to have something Sherlock had touched, worn all the time; to get the closest he could to having the real thing with him again.

Mycroft had left with a sad smile, and without the coat. It was within John's right to keep it, of course; Sherlock had left him everything in his will. Mycroft had come around with it a few days before he had come for the objects, explaining how all of Sherlock's accounts would be transferred to his own, all of his possessions changing ownership. It had turned out that Sherlock hadn't needed a flatmate at all. He had enough funds for pretty much any apartment in London.

And yet he had chosen to live with John.

After Mycroft had left, John had held the coat up to his face; breathed in the detective's scent. It was sweet, like lilacs and fresh fruit, but musty and slightly woodsy. That part wasn't explainable, as they spent almost all of their time in the city. John had ignored it. Besides, it was nice. The old coat smelt like home, more than 221b did now. At least the small hint of chemicals was familiar.

The scent of the long, dramatic coat is fainter now. John can still smell the sweetness of it, though. He packs it into the bag with everything else.

Anthea arrives with the car at a minute till ten.

"Hello," John says tiredly.

"Mmhh," she says over the clicking of her phone.

John gives the dark sunglasses she's wearing a curious look, but doesn't comment.

He's brought to an empty lot behind a tall, dark building. There's a helicopter there, engine still running, perched on the cement like a bird about to take off. It's a different one from last time. The driver opens his door, and John shoves his bag out before stepping into the chilly air. The sun is out, but there's a tantalizing breeze sifting through his short hair.

The driver stands as still as a statue, offering no directions or instructions. He's wearing tinted sunglasses as well, John notices. _It isn't that bright, is it?_ John thinks.

Once John moves away from the car, slouching with the duffel, the driver gets back into the sleek black vehicle and drives away, seemingly in the blink of an eye.

John turns his head and squints up at the helicopter, shrugging his shoulders.

He hoists the bag on his shoulder and walks over to the metal machine, sun shining on the back of his neck. He stumbles up the gleaming ladder. When he gets to the top, John tosses his luggage into the compartment with an annoyed sigh. He shambles in after it, but doesn't see much of anything before he feels a sharp prick in his neck.

John twists his head around to catch a glimpse of the needle, and has just enough time to close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose before he falls over.

xOxOxOxOxOx

Mycroft Holmes answers his phone with an impatient titter.

"_What_, Julia? I believe i was quite clear in my -"

"_He's gone, sir_," comes the short reply, cutting him off.

Mycroft forgets to be annoyed that he was interrupted.

"Check the house."

"_We did. Landlady said she hasn't_ _seen him, neither has anyone else. He's just simply... disappeared._"

Mycroft puts his head in his hand, closing his eyes.

"Is anything gone?"

"_We're checking now,_" the voice on the other line says.

Mycroft sighs. "Alright, you know what to do. Check with communications for me as well."

"_Yes sir_." The line goes dead.

Mycroft barely has time to curse everything before he gets another call. When he answers the impatiently ringing mobile, the speaker is already in mid-sentence.

" _- it's Victor, Victor Trevor, or Moriarty or _someone_, I'm not sure who but they know more than we thought. I think they're going to get John, to persuade me, but you need to warn him, get him under the best protection you have, I don't care if you have to -"_

"They've already got him, Sherlock," Mycroft says tiredly.

Sherlock is silent for a moment, then he's back to practically shouting into the phone.

"_Where were you?_" he demands, "_your people just sat back and -_"

"Doctor Watson was already gone from the premises when they arrived. I am doing everything within my power to _help_."

"_What good will it do now? He's gone!_"

Mycroft takes a deep breath.

"Yes, he is, and maybe we can get Doctor Watson back if you would stop whining like an insolent child and start contributing to a plan. Which, I'm sure, we'll be able to make with the provided resources of _my people_, who, in fact, are the best that that the United Kingdom has to offer," he snaps.

He can hear Sherlock breathing deeply from the other end. His younger brother's usually cool demeanor and so it seemed, his sanity, has been disintegrating before his eyes. And Mycroft doesn't like it.

No Holmes was supposed to let his guard down, or let any emotion show at any time. It was weak; so was sentiment. Father had taught them that, and he had had no trouble demonstrating it.

"_Yes_," finally comes the reply.

Mycroft clears his throat. "Good. Stay where you are, I'm heading there now."

Mycroft's about to add more, but Sherlock hangs up.

A pretty woman in a short black skirt and a ruffled, plum colored top saunters into the room.

"I didn't want to interrupt before you were finished, but Communications has found something. A black car, exactly like the ones we usually use, seen headed away from Baker Street moments before we arrived there," she says, not looking up from her mobile as she does so.

Mycroft shuffles the papers on his desk. "Typical," he remarks in disgust, "Can we track it?"

"Working on it now, Mr. Holmes. We haven't got a plate yet but I'm sure they'll get on it," she says, taking a moment off from texting to sweep her thick hair over her shoulder.

Mycroft stands up.

"Julia, I'm going to need transport to Bunker A34," he says.

"Already got it. They should be here in about five minutes," and with that, the woman strolls out of the room in her gleaming heels, hips swaying as her fingers tap away.

Mycroft smiles. That woman is on top of it all.

"I must be rubbing off on her," he mutters.

* * *

**A/N: Hoping to start updating regularly again now. See you next week. **

**(or earlier) **


	11. Games

**A/N: I'm getting kind of wary of this story now. Should I continue? Are you guys, the readers, interested? I fear that my writing might be on the verge of slowly dying and I'd rather snuff it quickly instead of causing you readers to lose interest. I absolutely hate it when writers refuse to stop going on and on, even as their story coughs and sputters out.**

**Please give me feedback! It would mean the world. If just one person wishes for me to continue, I shall; but tell me if I should just quit this and focus on the teen!lock plotlines that have been crowding my mind as of late... **

**Well, all things considered, here's chapter eleven...**

* * *

Games

"Oi! Wake up, that's a good lad... You must be wondering where you are!" a voice laughs.

A low sigh escapes the ex army doctor's lips. John's head feels as though it's being pounded with an unnumbered amount of sharp, heavy hammers and his body feels like rubber that's been stretched and snapped back into place again. The bright lights of - wherever he is - hurt his eyes as he tries to coach them open. He's bound to something hard, and cold; he can feel the straps on his ankles and wrists even with the disorientating feeling that seems to be clouding around him.

_Wasn't he only just boarding a helicopter?_

Suddenly, John feels the urge to spring up, take in everything around him, and rip off his bindings; but, of course, he doesn't. He wants to, though; and his brain is being rendered incapable of such an action, clogged and slowed by something - the back of his mind thinks, _the needle_ - and the best thing he can do is finally wrench his eyes open all the way.

The first thing he sees is an abundance of neon, pure light that seems to be as just as white as anything can be - and it's _all_ he sees. It's the sort of light that bleeds through closed eyelids and directly into the vision center of your brain, blinding your very thoughts sand leaving you as sightless as an old man. It hurts to look at and John gets the urge to pry his own eyeballs from his skull; but his hands are tied and useless against his torso.

"Ah, the light... Yes... Your face does look _very_ silly when you squint like that, you know. Doesn't do anything to help your looks," the voice from before comments. "Now, I don't usually go for a man in uniform, but you could look very splendid indeed with yours on. Are you a fan of kinky things like that?"

The light seems to saturate a bit, and John recognizes a distinctly female figure leaning over him. He tries to open his mouth to speak, but his tongue feels heavy and almost suffocating against his throat.

"Shhhh, don't speak," the figure says, "I'm afraid we're stuck having a one-on-one for now. Haha! It's been _such_ a long time since I've talked to anyone at all. I suppose you'll have to do!" There's a smile in her voice, a light, airy tone that is disgustingly perky.

John closes his eyes again. He can't feel his body at all, actually, and his mind seems to slowly be powering down. the only thought it's registering is, _I shouldn't be here. Where am I? _And that particular thought is going around and around in his head, like a broken record.

The owner of the voice speaks again as John closes his eyes, this time sounding panicked and afraid.

"No! Don't leave me here alone! You're here, sitting right there! We were going to talk! Oh, it's the light, the lights are draining you... But you don't have to leave! Stay here, don't you want to talk? I haven't talked to anyone in so long! The lights, the lights... terrible lights, leaving their traces... No, no, no, this won't do! This won't do at all! no, no, no, no, no..."

John vaguely registers that he's falling asleep.

xOxOxOxOxOx

There's someone leaning over him.

She's pretty - _very_ pretty, in fact - with dripping curls that seem to be woven from a golden thread and the biggest, most complex green eyes John has ever seen, framed with thick lashes and spatters of light freckles across a button nose and rosy cheeks. The woman looks as though she's in her mid-thirties, but there's something inhuman, unnatural about her that he can't put his finger on.

The woman steps back, faster than John had believed possible, and before he can do anything other than take in her appearence.

The new distance reveals a full hourglass figure of gleaming, flawless skin and a sparse amount of clothing. A small, white shirt that is just sheer enough to reveal the absence of anything under it and tight white shorts of the same plain variety as the top. The woman is curved and defined, with legs that seem to go on forever and the figure that every man dreams of; which is most of the time only found in prostitutes and the likes of such.

And yet, with the woman comes the impossible aura of innocence. You can't help but think of a child, and her face speaks of the worry-free, play-filled happening of such times. She doesn't look devious at all, and certainly not like someone who would be found observing a bound and disorientated man.

"I fixed the lights! They won't bother you. You can see me alright, can't you? _I_ could see, _I'm_ immune - I have such wonderful eyes, they see far beyond spectrums that you could even dream possible! The lights looked dim, actually. I don't know why they were turned up so high, but we can't always know what you humans can be harmed by. Hey, that rhymed! Haha! I _do_ love it when that happens."

The woman perks up, as if just realizing something.

"But I'm being rude! I should tell you my name. Alrighty, I'm Mary. Or, at least, that's what _she's_ called," Mary gives a bubbly giggle. "But that's complicated. _I _don't really have a name. But you can call me Mary because that's what humans do. Ma-ry. _Ma-ry._ I think I quite like that. Do you?"

The woman doesn't seem to be asking, as she goes on speaking afterwards. "Well, I know your name's John. John Watson. You're a doctor! Oh, how exciting! What do you do? Do you cut people up? How fun would that be! You'll have to tell me all about it, I don't meet many doctors who are still capable of speaking!"

John uses his newly recovered ability to think properly to realize one thing: _She's insane_.

He had seen long-term mental patients at the hospital before, hearing them from inside their rooms as he walked down the hall to a surgery or to grab someone from a different ward. They were loud and usually either very happy or very angry, but most people in the hospital just minded their own business and ignored the nutters unless they contracted something that involved their specific area of expertise. John had hear a couple of co-workers complain about them once or twice, calling them child-like and stressful, and sometimes just plain annoying. He had always thought that a bit rude, because they couldn't help it, could they? He had never met one personally, though, and John finds himself gaining a new respect for the doctors who have to deal with these sorts of people.

John Watson has always been a man of action, so he also finds himself deciding that he can make use of the woman.

First, he examines his surroundings. They're still quite bright and noisy, but John realizes that the cause of this is mostly just the neon lights reflecting off of the stark, white walls. He and the madwoman - _Mary_ - are the only people in the room, and also happen to be the only _things_ in the room. There's no furniture, save the piece of plywood that he seems to be fastened to, and you really can't call that furniture at all. There are no windows, only a tall door pained the same blinding white as everything else, stuck into the corner as if it was a last-minute addition.

"Hello? Hellooo! Still here, Jo-hn!" Mary laughs again.

She seems to do that an awful lot.

xOxOxOxOxOx

Mycroft steps out of the helicopter, swinging his umbrella between his fingers, to stand near the smooth rock that disguises 'Bunker A34'.

He is not very suprised at all and severely unimpressed when a man seems to appear out of thin air, directly between him and the hidden door.

"...Mycroft Holmes?" the man asks unintrestedly.

Mycroft sighs. "Yes."

"You are to come with me. Against your will."

"Can you allow me a moment please?" Mycroft asks with feigned poiliteness.

The other man nods stupidly, adjusting his tinted sunglasses. "Just a moment though, we're on a shedule."

Mycroft nods with a sickly sweet, fake smile plastered onto his face, just before he taps the point of his umbrella on the ground and quickly takes a step back.

The unidentified man is promptly incinerated, no time at all for him to register the _beep beep_ of the bomb. The explosion is controlled and lasts about three seconds, orangey flames gone so fast that you could have imagined them. All that remains of the man is a patch of blackened grass and a couple charred chunks of pale flesh, which Mycroft turns his nose up at.

"Julia, Code Four-Oh-Seven. Take the necessary precautions," he says into his wrist watch.

Mycroft strolls over to the heavily concealed door, examining the handle for a bit. He finally taps a button and reaches out to yank it open, and is very unamused to find that it won't open.

"Sherlock!" he calls, "It's Mycroft, open up the door! We don't have very much time, and while I'm thrilled to find you've tried to manage your own security for once, I really must insist that you let me in to collect you."

On the other side of the door, the younger Holmes brother crosses his arms and huffs at the man pointing his finger at the iron door, which has gained a blueish hue.

xOxOxOxOxOx

"Oh, Sherlock. I hate to meet again in this way, but you seem to not want to see me as of late."

"Why would I?" Sherlock spits.

"I don't know exactly what it is about it all that throws you off," Jim Moriarty continues, "but, contrary to popular belief, I don't enjoy breaking and entering. Too much."

"Go ahead," Sherlock says calmly, "convert me. That's what you're here for, am I correct? So get it done with, because there _are _things I would like to do."

"Oh, you think you're so clever, don't you! No, that's now what I'm here for," Jim states joyously.

He stalks forwards to stare at Sherlock, inches from his face, crisp pinstriped suit pressing up against Sherlock's own dirty t-shirt and jeans.

"I want to play a game. You. Against me. Oh, and just for fun, we'll raise the stakes higher than they've ever been!"

Sherlock growls. ("Me-ow! You really shouldn't let that all that magic get the best of you, you know!")

"It wouldn't be you against me. It would be you, the game maker, playing with his toys. I'm not interested in your silly little games so I suggest you rid of me now, before I do so myself." The detective steels himself to remain calm, no matter how much he wants to lash out; to rip, to tear and cause harm; to sit in a pile of blood and lick his paws clean...

But he's not even an animal at the moment.

"No, you don't understand. I'll take away any ultimate power I may posses. There's no fun in the chase when you're bound to win! We'll be equals; I'll hand the power over to someone else. Their problem. Then it'll just be you and me, and anyone who decides to help you. I'll have my Eklektoses and you'll have your precious _friends_, and we'll see who is truly better."

"Why?"

Jim laughs. "I'm bored. People are boring, even a world with me as ruler would be boring. But this - the game - it's not boring at all. _You're_ not boring, you just chose to be. Think of what we could achieve, together! Just think! Don't you want to play?"

"No."

Jim sighs. He takes a step away from Sherlock, bouncing between his heels and his toes, clicking his shoes on the floor.

"Too bad!" He says it as though it's a split-second decision, but Sherlock knows it's what he had planned to do all along. It's the last thought he has before he sees the pad of Moriarty's finger pointing towards him and his body falls to the ground with a dull _thud_.

When he wakes up, he can't see. There's no cloth in front of his eyes, preventing him from doing so, but all he registers is blackness. Sherlock's mind immediately jumps to the only possible conclusion.

"So!" Jim's voice is in his ear, as close as if the man was standing right next to him. "I think we're on equal territory with our understanding of how everything works, and, if not, you have countless resources at your disposal if you'd care to look. The rules are simple; all that's here is London. You have the entity on the city at your disposal, but there's nothing outside of it. I suggest you take my word for it.

"Everyone who was in London a few seconds ago is here, too. They are in the same state as you are, the same state that I also remain in. The ending rule is simple; winner wakes up. The winner is the one who finds the way out. There can only be one winner.

"Winner gets the crown. Winner is king." Sherlock can _hear_ Jim smiling.

"'How is this fair?' you ask. Well, even I don't know what's here. I've simply unleashed an energy virus of pure magic loose in all of our brains, and I have absolutely no control over it. It has one instruction; to create obstacles for both of us. What it creates remains to be seen.

"See? What fun!

"Now, here's the really great part - you die here, you die in your real body, too. The virus links your thought processes and the visualizing center of your brain directly to your physical vessel. Same goes for everyone else. Ahh, power! The real question is whether you can find the power that will wake you up."

Moriarty's voice drops to a whisper.

"I don't have anywhere near the amount of energy as I do in the real world. We're completely equal. Good luck," he adds.

* * *

**A/N: What do you think? Good? Not so good? should I keep going?**


End file.
